THE  FAIR  PURITAN 


AN 


HISTORICAL   ROMANCE 


OF 


THE  DAYS  OF   WITCHCRAFT 


BY 

HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT 

("FRANK   FORESTER") 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  WARWICK  WOODLANDS,"  "THE  CAVALIERS  OF  ENGLAND,' 
"  MY  SHOOTING  Box,"  "  CROMWELL,"  "  THE  BROTHERS,"  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 
1875. 


LOAN  STACK 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1875,  by 

CHARLES   C.  SAVAGE, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


qs-s 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE.* 


THIS,  the  only  American  Romance  of  the  author,  is 
truly  a  historical  romance ;  many  of  the  persons  being 
genuine  historical  characters,  and  the  facts  generally  and 
the  spirit  of  the  age  carefully  preserved.  The  period  is 
one  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  early  times  of  North 
American  history,  being  that  of  the  subsidence  of  the 
terrible  excitement  of  the  Salem  witchcaft,  the  tyrannous 
government  of  Sir  Edmund  Andros,  and  the  first  organ 
ized  and  successful  resistance  to  the  authority  of  the 
crown. 

The  author  respectfully  submits  it  to  the  public  witk 
the  hope  that  it  will  be  found  a  worthy  companion  to  his 
other  works  of  historic  fiction,  whose  scenes  and  charac 
ters  have  been  gathered  in  foreign  lands. 

*Mr.  Herbert  prepared  this  romance  for  the  press  in  1856.  It 
hnd  been  stereotyped,  when  commercial  disaster  interfered  with  its 
publication.  The  plates  were  afterward  mislaid,  and  only  recently 
discovered:  Meanwhile,  the  accomplished  scholar  and  novelist  has 
rested  from  his  literary  labors  and  passed  beyond  the  tomb. 

C.  C.  S. 
December,  1S74. 


740 


THE  FAIR  PURITAN 

a  IlontflTO  nf  iljB  33nt[ 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE    FOREST    DWELLING. 

el  *<5pa,   tf\v8ov,   'HX&crpa,   irori  cfav   dypoTepav  dv\ai>. 

IN  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  capital  of 
Massachusetts,  or,  as  it  was  then  usually  termed,  the  Bay 
Province,  was  the  largest,  as  it  is  still  the  most  beautiful,  of 
American  cities. 

Already,  at  that  early  period,  it  had  done  more  than  laying 
the  foundations  of  that  reputation  which  she  still  possesses,  as 
the  metropolis  of  transatlantic  letters,  if  not  of  wealth  or  of 
commerce. 

1^  was  a  peculiar  trait,  and  one  the  most  redeeming,  among 
much  bigotry,  much  stupid  and  fanatical  intolerance,  much 
hairsplitting  and  strife  of  ultra-creeds  —  it  was,  I  say,  a  pecu 
liar  and  most  honorable  trait  in  the  character  of  the  hard  old 
Puritans,  that  wheresoever  they  set  foot,  they  left  their  track 
permanently  stamped,  not  as  their  Dutch  contemporaries  of 

A* 


6  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

the  Nieu  Netherlands  in  warehouses  and  factories,  but  in  the 
nobler  work  of  schools  and  colleges,  adapted  to  the  future 
wants,  not  to  the  present  means  of  their  sparse  population. 

No  part  of  what  are  now  the  United  States  was  peopled  from 
a  stock  so  sound  as  Massachusetts. 

Virginia,  indeed,  had  to  boast  a  nobler  lineage,  a  race  im 
bued  with  the  noblest  sentiments  that  grace  humanity,  the  high 
est  chivalry,  the  clearest  sense  of  honor,  qualities  for  which,  to 
this  day,  her  sons  are  deservedly  renowned. 

It  may  not  be  denied,  however,  that  soldiers  rather  than 
scholars,  adventurers  rather  than  statesmen,  were  her  settlers  ; 
while,  in  addition  to  the  vast  advantage  she  derived  from  the 
character  of  her  first  governor,  the  moderate  and  admirable 
Winthrop,  Massachusetts  had  among  her  founders,  "  many  of 
high  endowments,  large  fortune,  and  the  best  education ; 
scholars  well  versed  in  all  the  learning  of  the  times  ;  clergy 
men  who  ranked  among  the  most  eloquent  and  pious  in  the 
realm"*  —  men  equally  removed  from  intolerant  bigotry  and 
sectarian  license  —  men  equally  averse  to  arbitrary  power  and 
democratic  anarchy — men,  in  short,  fchan  whom  none  could  be 
found  better  suited  to  their  great  office,  as  the  forefathers  of  a 
mighty  nation. 

Cambridge  was  founded  almost  simultaneously  with  the  city 
to  which  it  is  still  the  brightest  ornament ;  and  it  is  worthy  of 
remark  that  the  oldest  born  is  yet  the  most  eminent  of  Ameri 
can  colleges,  and  that — right  consequence  of  noble  causes  — 
Boston  alone  yields  as  of  right  to  mental  power  and  literary 
eminence,  that  social  rank  which  the  less  elevated  spirit  of  her 
rivals  grants  to  superior  wealth,  or  to  success  and  enterprise 
in  traffic. 

Nor  were  the  fruits  of  this  higher  civilization  displayed  only 
in  great  features,  in  the  grandeur  of  public  institutions.  They 
*  Bancroft's  History,  vol.  i.,  p.  355. 


THE    FOREST    DWELLING.  ' 

were  as  manifest  in  the  humanities  of  the  domestic  circle,  as 
in  the  morals  of  the  forum. 

And  it  is  not  incurious  to  observe,  that,  as  if  to  disprove,  on 
the  very  face  of  his  country,  the  general  though  most  unjust 
assertion  which  would  attribute  to  the  Nevv-Englander  a  geni 
us  peculiarly  money-making  and  gain-loving — to  observe,  I 
say,  as  every  one  must  observe  who  has  travelled  in  the  pleas 
ant  places  of  his  land,  that  the  New-Englander  alone  has 
spared  time  from  his  gainful  toils  for  the  adornment  of  his 
household  gods  —  for  planting  trees  in  his  village  ways,  and 
cultivating  flowers  in  his  cottage-gardens,  and  making  his 
home  —  sure  test  of  a  refined  and  gentle  spirit  —  not  rich  alone 
in  those  creature  comforts,  the  taste  for  which  we  share  with 
the  brutes  that  perish,  but  in  those  nicer  charms,  which  fill 
the  eye  with  pleasure,  the  heart  with  patriotism  and  with  love 
—  which  last  is  virtue. 

Nor  is  the  culture,  which  we  now  behold,  laughing  out,  un 
der  the  brilliant  suns  and  cloudless  skies  of  America,  in  the 
sweet  villages  and  glowing  fields  adjacent  to  the  metropolis  of 
New  England,  as  it  laughs  nowhere  else  on  this  side  the  At 
lantic,  the  tardy  growth  of  progressive  centuries. 

The  English  elms,  which  lift  their  heads  still  green  and 
comely  and  untouched  by  age  above  the  roofs  of  the  old  city, 
were  planted  there  before  one  generation  had  elapsed,  after  the 
pilgrim's  foot  first  trod  the  rock  of  Plymouth. 

And  the  log-cabins  of  the  first  settlers  displayed,  unlike  the 
shanties  of  the  west,  the  cultivated  taste  which  had  been 
nursed  in  remote  and  polished  regions,  by  the  red-berried 
mountain-ash  planted  before  the  door,  by  the  sweet-scented 
creeper  trained  round  the  humble  casement,  and  by  the  rose 
or  pink  brought  from  beyond  the  sea  to  bloom  in  the  bleak  pre 
cincts  of  the  New  England  clime. 

In  the  year  1688,  for  it  was  at  that  period  that  the  great 


8  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

events  occurred,  with  which  were  interwoven  the  humbler 
threads  of  personal  adventure,  to  which  my  narrative  relates  — 
in  the  year  1688  the  province  of  Massachusetts,  which  then  in 
cluded  Maine  as  far  as  the  Piscataqua,  could  boast  a  popula 
tion  of  about  forty-four  thousand  souls ;  of  which  at  least  a 
fourth  part  were  inhabitants  of  Boston,  and  the  beautiful  vil- 
ages  about.  These  latter,  at  the  first  landing  of  Winthrop, 
having  been  well  described  as  abounding  in  "  sweet  and  pleas 
ant  springs,  and  good  land,  affording  rich  cornfields  and  fer 
tile  gardens,"*  had  justified  the  choice  of  their  first  settlers, 
and  had  already,  in  the  little  space  of  half  a  century,  acquired 
much  of  the  elegance  and  yet  more  of  the  comforts  of  an  old 
country. 

And  if  the  population,  which  filled  those  pleasant  seats,  was 
not  sprung  from  the  "  high  folk  of  Normandie,"  neither  is  it 
altogether  true  that  they  were  of  the  "  low  men,"  although  they 
were  indeed  of  Saxon  origin. 

Had  they  been  such,  they  would  not  have  brought  with 
them  the  love  of  letters  and  the  intellectual  tastes  for  which, 
from  their  first  arrival  on  the  shores  of  the  New  World,  they 
were  conspicuous,  howmuchsoever  they  might  have  brought 
the  love  of  regulated  freedom,  whether  in  politics  or  in  religion. 

Many,  and  those  the  best  and  the  most  useful,  of  the  new 
settlers  were  of  the  better  class  of  yeomanry,  or  of  the  smaller 
gentry,  with  not  a  few  able  burghers  from  the  country  towns, 
persons  of  ample  means  and  sufficient  mental  cultivation.  And 
a  clear  proof  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  they  brought 
with  them  a  'considerable  number  of  bond-servants,  to  whom, 
not  long  after  their  landing,  perfect  freedom  was  granted,  not 
so  much  from  any  love  of  liberty  in  the  abstract,  as  because 
their  labor  was  less  valuable  than  the  cost  of  maintaining  them. 

It  is  a  great  mistake,  yet  not  on  that  account  less  general,  to 
*  Bancroft's  History. 


THE    FOREST    DWELLING. 


imagine  that  the  first  inhabitants  of  the  Bay  Province  were 
either  absolute  dissenters  from  the  church  of  England,  or 
strong  opponents  of  a  kingly  form  of  government,  however 
they  may  have  resisted  the  corruption  of  the  one,  or  the  undue 
extension  of  the  other. 

Winthroj^the  first  governor,  was  a  royalist,  and  an  enemy 
to  democracy,  a  churchman,  and  a  moderate  aristocrat.  For 
very  many  years  the  church  of  England  was  the  church  of 
Massachusetts,  though  in  a  milder,  and,  as  the  colonists 
averred,  a  purer  form  than  in  the  mother-country.  The  gov 
ernment,  in  the  first  instance,  was  one  of  "the  least  part," 
though  as  they  fondly  believed  of  "  the  wisest  and  the  best." 

Between  the  foundation  of  the  colony,  however,  and  the 
period  concerning  which  I  write,  it  can  not  be  denied  that 
changes  have  been  in  constant  progress,  tending  to  absolute 
independence  in  the  church,  anH  to  republicanism  in  the  polity 
of  the  embryo  nation. 

It  was  to  check  this  growing  spirit,  that  the  charters  of  the 
New  England  states  were  abolished  ;  that,  on  the  succession 
of  the  second  James,  it  was  proposed  to  send  the  notorious 
Colonel  Kirkc,  whose  infamous  renown  had  not  yet  been  ac 
quired  fully,  as  a  fit  person  to  coerce  and  crush  down  the 
growth  of  puritanical  and  democratic  principles  ;  and,  to  con 
clude,  that  in  the  winter  of  1688,  Sir  Edmond  Andros  landed 
at  Boston,  glittering  in  gold  and  scarlet,  surrounded  by  a  body 
guard  of  flaunting  cavaliers,  as  governor  of  all  New  England, 
and  destined  to  rule  with  a  rod  of  iron  those  whom  his  crea 
ture  Randolph  had  designated  as  "  a  perverse  people." 

Those  were  the  evil  days  of  New  England.  Then  there 
began  a  series  of  vexatious  and  tyrannical  oppressions,  as  vio 
lent  as  ever  were  endured  by  an  English  population. 

Nor  was  it  merely  under  the  oppressive  system  of  public 
measures  that  the  people  groaned  indignantly.  For  private  in- 

1* 


10  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

science,  extortion,  and  licentiousness,  were  let  loose  in  aid  of 
public  tyranny  and  persecution. 

The  vilest  men  that  could  be  found  in  all  New  England,  as 
being  the  only  men  who  would  lend  themselves  to  the  measures 
of  the  new  governor,  were  those  selected  to  fill  the  highest 
office.  And,  while  the  tenure  of  their  posts  was  dependent  on 
their  zeal  and  determination  in  the  extinguishment  of  every 
spark  of  civil  or  religious  freedom,  the  due  performance  of  this 
odious  duty  was  a  sufficient  plea  whereby  to  defend  every  act 
of  personal  revenge,  or  sensual  gratification. 

Liberty  was  indeed  trodden  under  foot  throughout  the  Bay 
Province. 

The  schools  of  learning  were,  as  the  best  foundations  of  that 
liberty,  with  a  tact  as  odious  as  it  was  farsighted,  discouraged, 
and  allowed  to  decay. 

The  churches  were  reduced  to  extremity,  by  interference 
with  their  means  of  support. 

Vote  by  ballot  was  forbidden  under  penalties. 

Town-meetings  for  deliberation  were  proclaimed  as  an  overt 
act  of  sedition. 

Domestic  rights  were  scarce  less  oppressively  invaded  than 
public  privileges.  No  man's  house  in  New  England  was  his 
castle.  The  right  of  habeas  corpus  was  denied,  and  men  were 
calmly  told  that  the  laws  of  England  would  not  be  found  to  fol 
low  them  to  the  world's  end. 

fiut  widely  did  they  err,  who  fancied  that  with  liberty  itself, 
the  love  of  liberty  could  be  extinguished  in  the  bosom  of  the 
pilgrims. 

The  very  violence  of  the  means  adopted  to  abolish  it  was, 
under  Providence,  the  cause  of  its  establishment ;  and  in  the 
despotism  of  Sir  Edmund  Andros  will  be  found  the  match 
which  fired  the  train,  that  smouldered  long,  to  blaze  out  in  un- 


THE    FOREST    DWELLING.  11 

extinguished  brightness,   after  a  century  had  passed,  on  the 
same  spot  which  saw  it  kindled. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  the  history  of  the  Bay  Province, \ 
when  the  oppression  of  the  English  governor  was  at  its  height, 
and  the  depression  of  the  popular  mind  at  the  lowest,  that 
there  might  be  seen  at  the  eastern  end  of  Boston  bay,  among 
the  rocks,  which  wall  it  toward  Nahant,  a  small  cottage  of 
singular  construction,  yet  most  romantical  withal,  and  indeed 
beautiful. 

Midway  the  cliffs,  which  project  so  far  above  it,  as  to  admit 
of  no  access  from  the  land-side,  there  was  a  small,  green 
ledge  or  platform,  containing  about  an  acre  of  land,  nearly 
level,  though  sloping  gently  to  the  southward,  where  it  was 
bounded  by  a  sheer  descent  of  fifty  or  sixty  feet,  scarped  by 
the  hand  of  Nature  in  the  living  rock. 

On  every  other  side,  it  was  surrounded  by  dark  crags  rising 
abruptly  as  a  rampart  from  its  grassy  margins  ;  for  it  was  then 
clothed  with  a  carpet  of  short  mossy  greensward  shadowed  by 
half  a  dozen  giant  pines,  the  sole  survivors  of  a  colony,  which 
had  occupied  all  the  platform  previous  to  the  invasion  of  the 
white  man. 

In  front  of  this  platform,  otherwise  inaccessible,  there  rose 
from  the  sandy  beach  a  huge,  round  heavy  rock,  entirely  iso 
lated  at  high  water,  and  separated  from  the  cliffs,  whence 
probably  in  some  remote  age  it  had  fallen,  by  a  space  of  fifty  feet. 

On  the  side  facing  the  shaggy  shore,  this  rock  was  precipi 
tous  and  sheer,  its  head  overhanging  its  base,  and  its  slippery 
sides  unscalable  by  the  most  adventurous  foot.  To  the  sea 
ward,  however,  it  was  ledgy,  and  broken  into  several  stages, 
like  a  huge  flight  of  steps  ;  and  this  had  most  likely  suggested 
the  occupation  of  the  platform  above,  which  was  some  ten  feet 
higher  than  the  insulated  rock,  as  a  place  of  residence. 


12  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

It  was  on  this  platform,  then,  nestled  close  into  the  recess, 
and  actually  overhung  by  the  cliffs  above  it,  that  the  romantic 
cottage  stood,  wherein  not  a  few  of  the  incidents  occurred, 
which  I  purpose  to  secure  from  oblivion,  as  types  of  an  age, 
the  memory  of  which  is  but  too  rapidly  evanishing. 

Built  of  rough  logs,  and  but  one  story  high,  it  resembled 
somewhat  a  Swiss  chalet ;  but  yet  more  an  English  cottage 
of  the  Elizabethan  era,  allowance  being  made  for  the  differ 
ence  of  material,  and  the  absence  of  skilful  architects. 

Like  the  former,  it  was  entirely  of  wood,  with  eaves  far 
projecting  beyond  the  walls  of  the  building,  and  with  a  roof, 
bark  covered,  highly  peaked,  and  overgrown  with  gray  lichens. 

Like  the  latter,  it  was  irregular  in  shape,  having  been  built 
without  any  definite  plan  in  the  first  instance,  and  increased, 
with  the  increasing  exigencies  of  the  family  that  occupied  it, 
at  random.  It  had,  therefore,  at  least  half  a  dozen  stacks  of 
chimneys,  and  as  many  gable  ends,  three  doors  with  a  rustic 
porch  over  each,  and  eight  or  nine  windows,  opening  in  the 
lattice  fashion  with  small  diamond  panes  set  in  frames  of  lead, 
which,  by  their  appearance,  must  have  come  evidently  from 
what  the  colonists  were  still  proud  to  call  HOME. 

The  little  space,  in  front  of  this  old  English  cottage,  was 
laid  out  as  a  garden,  partly  in  level  turf  smooth  shaven  as  a 
lawn  in  the  old  country,  partly  in  flower-beds  neatly  trimmed, 
and  bright  with  flowers  which  never  had  their  birth  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic.  A  little  walk,  firmly  compacted  of  sea- 
shells  beaten  into  powder,  led  down  from  the  principal  entrance 
of  the  cottage  to  the  brink  of  the  cliff,  directly  opposite  to  the 
insulated  rock  I  have  described. 

Here  a  bridge  of  a  single  arch  spanned  the  rough  chasm, 
framed  like  the  house  itself  of  unbarked  timber,  and  guarded 
at  the  sides  by  parapets,  if  they  may  so  be  called,  of  gnarled 
roots  and  branches  from  the  forest. 


THE    FOREST    DWELLING.  13 

The  lower  rock  itself  had  undergone  certain  improvement*- 
also,  which  had  rendered  it  not  only  more  accessible,  but  mort. 
picturesque,  and  pleasing  to  the  eye. 

Rude  flights  of  wooden  steps,  with  balustrades  of  pine 
branches,  led  from  one  platform  to  the  other;  and  a  bold  break 
water  of  trunks  piled  fantastically  one  upon  the  other  ran  out 
from  its  eastern  end,  making  a  small  but  secure  harbor,  be 
tween  the  island  and  the  shore,  wherein  two  or  three  fishing- 
boats  of  various  sizes,  a  long,  light  skiff,  and  an  Indian  canoe, 
lay  moored,  safe  from  the  wind  or  tide,  when  it  was  up,  and 
snugly  beached  on  the  white  sand  at  low  water. 

Such  was  the  scene  on  which  the  setting  sun  was  casting 
its  last  level  rays  on  a  lovely  summer  evening  of  that  disastrous 
year.  The  diamond  panes  glittered  like  gold  in  the  ruddy 
beams  ;  the  column  of  blue  smoke,  which  curled  its  way 
slowly  upward,  relieved  by  the  dark  background  of  the  granite 
rocks,  assumed  a  palpable  and  solid  form,  as  its  edges  were 
gilt,  and  rounded  by  the  rich  light ;  the  gaudy  flowers  laughed 
gorgeously  beneath  the  influence  of  the  time  and  season  ;  and 
even  the  old  weather-beaten  pines,  which  sheltered  the  low 
roof,  assumed  a  juvenile  and  jocund  air  in  that  sweet  summer's 
eve. 

The  sea,  for  miles  aloof,  lay  crisped  in  millions  of  small 
laughing  ripples,  flashing  and  twinkling  to  the  cloudless  skies. 
The  rocky  and  wood-crested  isles,  checkered  the  wide  ex 
panse  of  gold  and  azure  with  their  long  purple  shadows  ;  the 
distant  shores  and  the  bold  headland  of  Cohasset  loomed  like 
a  hazy  cloud  against  the  western  sky,  shrouded  in  the  soft 
mists  of  the  summer  sunset. 

Thousands  of  snow-white  gulls  were  on  the  wing,  soaring 
and  diving  through  the  transparent  atmosphere,  or  plunging 
down  upon  their  scaly  victims  among  the  flashing  spray  of  the 
«mall  wavelets. 


14  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

But  save  these,  no  living  form  enlivened  the  bright  scene  ; 
until,  when  the  sun  was  already  half  sunken  in  the  glowing 
ocean,  there  stepped  out  from  the  cottage-porch,  shading 
her  eyes  with  one  hand  against  the  horizontal  rays,  a  girl  so 
beautiful^.and,  to  me  at  least,  so  interesting  in  her  child-like 
innocence,  and  her  strange  fortunes,  that  she  merits  a  better 
introduction  than  the  end  of  a  long  if  not  tedious  chapter. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE    FOREST    MAIDEN. 

Aor/nrpih  yap  eis  y£vo;  ye.      Xpjtytarwy  SI  tit] 

THE  girl,  who  stepped  forth  from  the  rustic  porch,  and  gazed 
out  so  eagerly,  as  if  expecting  some  one,  over  the  sunlit  sea, 
was  one  of  those  exquisite  creations  that  we  sometimes  behold, 
though  rarely,  on  earth,  recalling  all  our  thoughts  toward 
heaven. 

She  was  very  young,  yet  not  perhaps  so  young,  as  would 
have  been  imagined  from  the  expression  of  her  features,  and 
her  whole  air,  which  were  singularly  juvenile  and  almost 
child-like. 

Her  hair,  which  was  luxuriant,  almost  beyond  the  reach  of 
fancy,  though  the  simple  mode,  on  which  it  was  arranged,  dis 
sembled  much  of  its  rich  redundance,  was  of  that  beautiful  and 
unusual  hue,  so  difficult  to  be  described,  which  the  old  poets 
were  wont  to  call  golden.  Without  one  shade  of  red  or  auburn, 
it  was  in  fact  of  that  soft,  light  sunny  brown,  which,  catching 
as  it  did  now,  the  last  slant  sunbeams,  glitters  indeed  like 
threads  of  virgin  gold. 


THE    FOREST    MAIDEN.  15 

Divided  on  the  brow,  and  laid  smoothly  down  over  each 
cheek,  in  a  broad,  glistening  fold,  the  wavy  lines  of  which 
showed  clearly  that,  if  suffered,  it  would  have  wound  itself  into 
a  maze  of  natural  ringlets,  it  was  collected  into  a  knot  at  the 
back  of  her  beautifully-formed  head,  so  dense  and  massive  that 
it  required  no  practised  eye  to  discover  that,  unbound,  it  would 
have  fallen  nearly  to  her  feet. 

The  girl's  complexion  was  such  as  might  have  been  anti 
cipated  from  the  color  of  her  hair ;  that  is  to  say,  it  was  fairer 
and  whiter  than  anything  to  which  it  can  be  well  compared, 
yet  with  an  under-tint  of  sun  that  showed  how  healthfully  and 
warmly  the  pure  blood  circulated  under  that  snowy  skin. 

Save  this  faint  tinge,  her  cheeks  were  nearly  colorless,  un 
less  it  were  when  some  quick  thought  or  transient  feeling 
flooded  them  with  brief  crimson. 

As  if  to  make  up  for  this  deficiency,  however,  her  lips,  ex 
quisitely  arched  and  wooing,  were  of  the  warmest  and  most 
vivid  carnation. 

What  was  most  singular  and  striking  in  her  aspect  was,  that 
her  eyebrows  and  long,  silky  lashes  were  of  so  deep  and  well- 
defined  a  brown,  that,  when  contrasted  with  her  light  hair  and 
lucent  skin,  they  looked  almost  black. 

Her  eyes,  which  were  very  large  and  bright,  though  softer 
even  than  they  were  brilliant,  were  also  very  dark,  not  black, 
indeed,  but  of  that  full  deep  hazel  so  common  to  the  peasant- 
maids  of  England. 

There  was,  however,  something  in  the  whole  aspect  of  this 
girl  which  denied  the  inference  that  might  have  been  drawn 
thence  that  she  was  of  lowly  birth — that  indiscribable  and 
nameless  something,  which  certainly  is  not  manner  alone,  nor 
the  mere  effect  of  mind,  by  which  the  eye  at  once  distinguishes 
the  gently,  if  not  nobly,  born. 

That  the  qualities  of  both  the  mind  and  body  are  in  some 


16  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

sort  hereditary,  I  can  not  imagine  be  disputed.  Still  less 
can  I  conceive  when  it  is  perfectly  in  accordance  with  the 
rules  of  nature  that  it  should  be  so,  why  it  should  be  disputed. 
In  animals,  we  see  clearly  that  blood  will  tell  ;  the  horse,  the 
hound,  nay  the  inferior  brutes,  transmit  their  qualities  with 
absolute  precision ;  and  if,  in  man,  the  descent  of  virtue  or 
vice,  strength  or  debility,  deformity  or  beauty,  is  less  evident  at 
first  sight,  it  is  that,  in  man,  education  has  pow.er  to  modify 
that,  which  it  can  neither  create  nor  annihilate,  the  natural 
bent  and  bias  of  both  mind  and  body. 

Be  this,  however,  as  it  may,  no  one  can  have  mixed  much 
with  the  English  in  their  own  land,  without  coming  to  the  con 
clusion  that  there  is  a  marked  and  perceptible  physical  differ 
ence  between  the  upper  and  lower  classes  of  society.  (The 
upper  classes,  as  a  whole,  being  the  handsomest  race  in  civil 
ized  Europe,  tall,  well-formed,  delicate,  and  slender,  though  at 
the  same  time  muscular  and  strong,  with  small  hands,  feet,  and 
ears ;  while  the  lower  classes,  though  robust,  healthy,  and  not 
uncomely,  are  square,  thick  set,  and  coarsely  made,  with  sin 
gularly  large  and  awkward  extremities. 

He  constantly  will  see,  among  the  country  lasses,  lovely 
complexions,  fine  eyes,  and  fine  hair ;  but  rarely,  or  never, 
slender  waists,  shapely  limbs,  small  feet,  or  taper  ankles. 

Of  this  the  reason,  if  we  look  for  it,  is  not  obscure.  In  the 
first  place,  the  upper  classes  have  a  large  mixture,  when  they  are 
not  wholly,  of  the  Norman  blood :  a  race  famous,  in  all  time, 
for  straightness  and  height  of  stature,  for  symmetry  of  form 
and  beauty  of  face,  as  much  as  for  valor,  energy,,  and  daring. 
The  lower  classes,  on  the  contrary,  are  purely  Saxon  to  this 
day,  and  the  Saxon  race,  though  stout,  robust,  and  sturdy,  have 
been  in  all  times  short,  square,  sturdy,  and  ungraceful. 

There  was,  then,  something  in  her  air,  which  would  have 
indicated  in  a  moment  to  a  practised  eye  that  this  English  girl  — 


THE    FOREST    MAIDEN.  17 

for  she  had  all  the  characteristics  of  the  English  blood  —  and 
indeed  at  that  day  there  was  little,  if  any  other,  in  New  Eng- 
gland  —  was  of  a  gentle  race.  Not  perhaps  of  the  high  no 
bility,  nor  of  pure  old  Norman  blood,  but  at  least  of  the  gentry. 

It  was  not  in  her  manner  only  that  this  was  apparent, 
although  her  attitude  was  very  graceful,  and  every  single 
movement  easy,  unstudied,  and  naturally  beautiful ;  nor  was  it 
in  her  face,  though  that  was  indeed  heavenly. 

Her  features  were  as  regular  as  those  of  a  Grecian  statue, 
but  neither  features  nor  coloring  gave  the  inexpressible  charm 
to  that  sweet  young  face.  Nor  was  it  intellect  or  genius,  for 
although  these  were  not  wanting,  and  although  a  physiogno 
mist  would  have  told  you  of  latent  poetry,  and  warm  imagination, ; 
and  deep  thoughts,  it  was  clear  that  they  were  as  yet  all  latent 
—  that  her  talents  were  as  yet  to  her  a  sealed  fountain,  wait 
ing  perhaps  the  touch  of  passions,  equally  dormant,  to  call 
them  into  life. 

It  was  the  singular  expression  of  purity,  of  truth,  of  artless, 
unsuspecting,  unquestioning  innocence,  which  beamed  from 
every  line  of  that  sweet,  joyous  face,  inflaming  it  with  an  air 
of  angelic  holiness  and  love,  that  made  it  so  remarkable. 

And  it  was  this  expression  which  gave  to  her  that  appearance 
of  extreme  youth  which  was  contradicted  by  the  maturer 
beauties  of  her  delicate  but  rounded  form  ;  nor  could  you  look 
upon  her  face,  without  seeing  that  the  mind  within  must  be 
pure  and  guileless,  as  that  of  a  little  child,  without  thinking 
of  that  beautiful  text,  which  bids  us  believe  in  the  Savior's 
words,  "  That  in  heaven  their  angels  do  always  behold  the 
face  of  my  Father,  which  is  in  heaven." 

If  her  appearance,  however,  the  shapely  slenderness  of  her 
tall,  rounded  figure,  the  fairy  smallness  of  the  white  hands,  the 
fine  setting  on  of  the  head,  the  curvature  of  the  swan-like 

neck,  the   falling  arch  of  the  shoulders  —  if  all   these,  I  say, 
B* 


18          .  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

would  have  betokened  her  of  gentle  birth,  the  simplicity,  if  not 
rudeness  of  her  garb,  would  have  gone  nearly  as  far  to  dis 
prove  the  inference. 

She  wore  no  cap  or  bonnet  on  her  sunny  hair,  but  a  broad 
carsenet  riband,  of  a  pale,  silvery  gray,  drawn  tight  around  her 
temples,  and  tied  in  a  close  knot  just  above  the  left  ear. 

A  handkerchief  of  spotless  muslin  covered  her  shoulders, 
and  veiled,- though  it  could  not  conceal  the  outlines  of  her 
beautifully-moulded  bosom  ;  and  sleeves  of  the  same  material 
fell  loosely  down  to  her  elbow  in  wide  plaits,  from  beneath  the 
shoulder-straps  of  a  tight  russet-colored  jerkin,  or  corsage,  as 
it  would  now  be  called,  laced  down  the  front  from  the  bosom 
to  the  point  of  its  long  stomacher.  A  full,  loose  petticoat,  of 
gray  serge,  nearly  of  the  same  shade  with  the  riband  which 
confined  her  hair,  was  not  so  long  but  that  it  displayed  a  clean 
ankle,  and  as  pretty  a  foot  as  ever  flitted  noiseless  over  a  Per 
sian  carpet,  or  dashed  the  dew-drop  from  a  grassy  lawn. 

Such  was  the  girl,  who  looked  forth  as  the  sun  was  setting 
with  a  long,  wistful  gaze  over  the  beautiful  bay  which  gave  its 
name  to  the  province  of  Massachusetts.  And  never  was  a 
rarer  combination  of  physical  and  mental  loveliness  than  that 
fair  girl  presented  to  the  eye.  And  there  was  something 
almost  strange  in  the  union  of  a  face  so  artless,  innocent,  and 
child-like,  with  a  form  so  perfectly  developed,  so  ripe  in  all 
the  charms  of  young,  lovely  womanhood. 

Long  did  she  gaze  and  wearily,  and  as  it  seemed  in  vain. 
And  an  expression  of  gentle  melancholy,  chastened  disappoint 
ment,  came  over  her  young  face,  as  she  turned  away,  convinced 
apparently  that  nothing  was  in  sight,  which  she  desired  to  see. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said  to  herself,  half  doubtfully ;  "  though 
I  know  not  at  what,  or  wherefore.  He  said  that  he  should  not 
return  until  late — yet  still  I  am  afraid.  I  will  go  in,  and 
pray—" 


THE    FOREST    MAIDEN.  19 

But  she  was  interrupted  here,  by  a  soft,  low,  sad  voice  close 
beside  her,  though  she  had  not  perceived  that  any  one  had  ap 
proached  her,  as  she  stood  there  under  the  declining  sunbeams, 
absorbed  in  anxious  thought. 

"  See,  Ruth,  see  !"  said  the  voice  with  a  slightly  foreign  ac 
cent  ;  "  see  there,  under  the  sun.  The  master's  boat  is  com 
ing.  You  could  not  see  it  for  the  glitter  of  the  waters  in  the 
wake." 

The  girl  looked  quickly,  whither  she  was  directed,  turning 
with  so  little  surprise  as  proved  that  the  plaintive  voice  must 
be  familiar  to  her  ear. 

"  Yes !  yes  !  I  see,  Patience,"  cried  the  girl  eagerly,  her 
cheek  flushing  slightly  as  she  spoke.  "  I  see,  and  I  thank 
you.  It  is  my  father ;  God  grant  that  he  bring  us  good 
tidings." 

And,  with  the  words,  she  turned  round  to  the  person  who 
had  addressed  her,  stretching  out  her  hand  kindly.  It  was 
clasped  instantly  ;  but  the  fingers  that  clasped  it  were  of  the 
hue  of  burnished  copper,  and,  as  she  turned  her  head,  the  full 
dark  melancholy  eyes  of  an  Indian  woman  looked  wistfully 
into  her  own. 

"  Why  call  her  Patience,  Ruth  ?"  said  the  Indian,  with  an 
expression,  glancing  across  her  dark  features,  that  showed  how 
much  the  name  was  indeed  misapplied  — "  why  not  call  her 
own  name  ?  why  not  say,  Tituba  ?" 

"  Well,  then,  thanks,  Tituba,"  replied  the  girl,  with  a  gentle 
smile.  "  But  I  think  Patience  a  far  prettier  name  ;  and  it  is 
good  too.  And  then  it  angers  my  father ;  he  says  Indian 
names  are  devices  of  the  evil  one." 

"  And  English  names  lies  /"  answered  the  bond-servant,  for 
such  was  the  condition  of  this  wild,  free-born  child  of  nature 
— "  Lies,  every  one  !  What  for  call  Patience,  when  not  pa 
tient  ?  Just  so  old  father  called  Merciful !  what  that  but  a 


20  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

great  lie  ?  He  prays  God  to  show  mercy ;  shows  not,  him 
self,  to  Tituba.  Flog !  flog  !  what  good  in  names  !  Call  Pa 
tience,  when  not  wish,  not  hope,  not  try,  to  be  patient.  Titu 
ba  hates  patience.  Never  call  her  so,  good  Ruth,  when  alone." 

The  manner  of  the  poor  Indian  woman  was  strange  and  sad 
to  witness.  It  reminded  one  of  a  warhorse,  had  he  ever  seen 
one,  debased  into  a  carrier's  drudge. 

There  was  the  wild,  clear  eye,  but  its  free  glance  was 
dimmed  and  humbled.  There  was  the  finely-formed  head, 
but  it  was  lowered  and  depressed,  by  the  accursed  stamp  of 
man's  servitude  on  the  brow  that  God  made  free,  in  his  own 
image.  There  were  the  graceful,  lithe,  strong  limbs,  but  they 
were  listless  and  oppressed  by  the  soul's  bondage,  moving, 
though  loose,  as  if  in  fetters. 

Ruth  gazed  upon  her  earnestly,  and  the  tears  rose  unbidden 
to  her  soft,  calm  eyes.  The  words  of  the  poor  servant  had 
performed  their  errand,  straight  to  the  heart.  The  truth  of 
those  words  —  their  strong,  disgraceful  truth  —  smote  her;  and 
she  could  not  deny,  even  to  herself,  that  sternness  rather  than 
mercy  was  the  attribute  of  that  father's  character,  who  yet  was 
never  stern  to  her,  and  whom,  she  loved,  even  herself,  half 
fearfully,  half  fondly. 

"I  will  —  I  will  call  you  Tituba,"  she  answered  quickly; 
"  not  when  we  are  alone,  however,  for  that  would  be  deceit, 
but  always  ;  and  when  my  father  is  in  the  milder  mood,  I  will 
plead  for  you,  poor  Tituba,  that  he  be  gentle  to  you,  as  he  is  to 
me  ever.  But  now,  go  in.  It  is  too  likely  he  comes  home 
bearing  sorrow  with  him  ;  and  his  sorrow  is  dark  and  wrath 
ful  toward  men,  though  submissive  toward  Him  who  sendeth 
sorrow,  as  he  sendeth  joy,  for  the  good  of  the  creatures  of  his 
hand.  Go  thy  ways  now,  poor  girl.  I  hear  his  foot  on  the 
rocks  below,  and  it  sounds  angrily.  Go  thy  way,  and  for  my 
sake,  try  not  to  hate,  try,  I  would  say,  to  love  my  father." 


THE    FANATIC.  21 

"  No,"  answered  the  woman,  sullenly.  "  How  she  love 
when  he  flogs  all  the  time,  and  prays,  and  flogs  again  ?  No 
—  not  love  father,  not  try  to  love  !  Tituba  never  try  to  love 
master.  What  made  the  white  man  the  Indian's  master? 
God  made  the  master,  merciful  Whalley  says !  Did  God 
make  the  slave,  Ruth  ?  No  !  Tituba  will  not  try  to  love  Mer 
ciful !  Need  not  try  to  love  Ruth! — loves  Ruth  already, 
without  trying  !" 

The  steps  of  the  man,  who  had  been  seen,  some  time  be 
fore,  approaching  from  the  westward  across  the  fair  bay,  were 
now  heard  distinctly,  as  he  ascended  the  isolated  rock  ;  and 
just  as  his  head  appeared  above  its  rounded  summit,  Tituba 
turned  away  with  a  dogged  air,  and  walked  off  with  a  slouch 
ing,  listless  gait  toward  the  cottage. 

Ruth  sprang,  with  her  whole  soul  anxiously  flashing  from 
her  eyes,  to  meet  her  father. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE    FANATIC. 

2c  TOV  aotfxjjTrjV)    TOV  irncpus   iirspiriKpov, 

SCARCE  had  the  poor  Indian  girl  made  a  few  steps  toward 
the  cottage,  before  the  man  whose  head  they  had  seen  above 
the  rocks  came  into  full  view. 

He  was  a  tall,  dark,  athletic  man,  from  forty-five  to  fifty  years 
of  age,  and  might  have  been  termed  handsome,  both  in  figure 
and  in  face,  but  for  the  gauntness  and  emaciation  of  the  former, 
which  was  so  great  as  to  convey  an  idea  of  monkish  macera 
tion  to  the  mind  of  the  beholder,  and  for  the  gloomy,  grim,  and 


22  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

austere  expression  which  distorted  features  otherwise  fine  and 
noble.  His  eye  was  keen  and  piercing,  but  wild  withal,  and 
at  times  fierce  and  fiery.  His  nose  was  well  shaped  and 
aquiline,  though  too  sharp  and  fleshless  toward  the  extremity. 
It  was  the  mouth,  however,  as  is  generally  the  case  in  strong 
and  powerfully-defined  characters,  that  gave  the  expression  to 
the  whole  face. 

The  lips  were  thin,  and  rigidly  compressed ;  and  in  them 
and  all  the  surrounding  lines,  austerity,  pride,  dogged  resolve, 
cruelty  ;  in  short,  almost  every  evil  passion  might  be  read,  with 
this  exception  only,  that  there  was  nothing  sensual  or  animal 
to  be  discovered  in  their  expression. 

Indeed,  whether  in  head,  or  face,  or  form,  it  was  impossible 
to  detect  anything  that  was  not  almost  purely  spiritual,  though 
it  was  much  to  be  doubted  if  that  spirit  were  not  so  far  per 
verted  as  to  be  now  almost  wholly  evil. 

His  hair,  which  had  been  in  his  youth  as  black  as  a  raven's 
wing,  was  now  thin  and  grizzled ;  and  his  dark  face  was 
marked  with  many  an  intricate  and  deeply  furrowed  line  ;  but 
they  were  lines  of  thought  and  passion,  not  of  age  ;  nor,  in 
deed,  had  time  left  many  traces  on  his  erect  and  iron  power, 
or  diminished  anything  of  his  hard  sinewy  strength. 

His  hands,  though  lean  and  wrinkled,  showed  cords  and 
sinews  that  would  not  have  disgraced  a  Samson ;  and  his 
tread,  though  slow  and  deliberate,  was  firm,  solid,  and  un 
yielding. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  close-fitting,  straight-cut  jerkin,  of 
thick  black  woollen  serge,  buttoned  up  from  a  little  way  below 
the  hips,  where  the  skirtless  and  unseemly  garment  ended,  to 
the  throat,  where  it  was  relieved  by  a  broad  collar  of  clear, 
'  coarse  linen  turned  squarely  over  it.  Loose  breeches  of  the 
same  material,  with  a  pair  of  huge  fisherman's  boots  reaching 
to  the  mid  thigh,  completed  his  attire,  except  that  he  had  a 


THE    FANATIC.  .     23 

tall  broad-brimmed  and  steeple-crowned  hat  on  his  head,  and  a 
large  boat-cloak  thrown  across  his  left  shoulder.  A  leather 
thong  buckled  about  his  waist  contained  a  long,  buck-handled 
knife,  and  in  his  right  hand  he  carried  a  very  heavy  old- 
fashioned  musket,  with  a  barrel  of  five  feet  in  length,  altered 
from  the  antique  fashion  of  the  match,  to  the  more  modern, 
though  scarcely  more  effective,  fire-lock. 

Such  was  the  man  who  called  Ruth  Whalley  daughter — 
the  man  for  whom  she  was  looking  out  with  anxious  expecta 
tion,  with  a  solicitude  so  evident,  that  it  would  have  told  much 
of  love,  had  it  not  seemed  to  participate,  in  some  degree,  of 
fear. 

And  could  it  be  that  this  stern,  fierce,  proud,  sneering  fanat 
ic —  for  such  he  must  have  been,  or  his  looks  wofully  belied 
him  —  could  be  the  father  of  a  being  so  pure,  so  gentle,  so  af 
fectionate,  so  lovely,  and  so  artless,  as  beautiful  Ruth  Whalley. 

It  is  an  old,  and  for  the  most  part  a  true  saying,  though  not 
so  refined  as  it  is  practical,  that  "like  breeds  like"  —  the  wise 
Roman  of  old  knew  it,  when  he  sang,  in  his  deathless  verse  : — 

"  Fortes  creantur  fortibus  et  bonis ; 

Est  in  juvenis,  est  in  equis  patrum 
Virtus;  nee  imbelhun  feroces 
Progenerant  aquila  columbum." 

The  tawny  Indian  knew  it,  when  he  looked  with  suspicion 
even  on  the  tried  virtue  of  old  chiefs,  whose  sons  proved  rec 
reant  in  the  field. 

Yet,  though  no  man  has  ever  seen  the  noble  racehorse 
spring  from  the  loins  of  the  coarse  cart-drudge,  or  the  saga 
cious  hound  from  the  low-blooded  cur ;  yet  are  there  cases, 
where  the  best  and  fairest  of  our  race  have  sprung  from  rude 
and  unsightly  stocks,  though  not  perhaps  devoid  of  ancestral 
worth  or  virtue. 


24 


THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 


Of  this,  if  it  be  so,  as  can,  I  think,  be  hardly  doubted,  Ruth 
Whalley  was  a  singular  example. 

Never  a  harder  sire  gave  life  to  a  sweeter  child.  Yet  little 
would  it  seem  that  he  prized  the  bright  young  creature,  on 
whom  scarce  any  eye,  save  his,  could  have  looked  unloving, 
or  undelighted. 

Yet  he  did  look  unlovingly  at  her — ay,  and  unlovingly  he 
spoke  —  as  she  sprang  forward  to  cast  her  white  arms  about 
his  neck,  asking  him  fondly  if  he  had  brought  good  tidings. 

"  Minion,  what  dost  thou  here  ?"  he  asked  harshly,  in  reply, 
"  wasting  the  Lord's  best  gift  of  daylight  in  loitering  thus,  look 
ing  on  the  sea,  which  is  not  half  so  light  or  so  wanton  as  thou 
art ;  and  tuning,  I  dare  well  avouch  it,  the  voice  which  was 
given  thee  for  prayer  and  praise,  to  idle  and  lascivious  min- 
strelsey.  Tidings  !  what  tidings  should  I  bring,  but  of  wrath  in 
heaven,  and  on  earth  fear,  and  tyranny,  and  persecution  ?  The 
Lord  has  hid  his  face — has  hid  his  face,  I  say,  from  Israel  — 
nor  will  he  turn  it  on  us  any  more  until  we  have  thrust  out  our 
sin,  and  cast  away  our  abomination  from  us  !  Go  in  !  go  in  ! 
I  say  —  what  do  you  here  ?  Go  in  !  your  mother  is  to  blame, 
minion  !  —  and  that  brown  daughter  of  perdition  with  you,  too  ! 
Take  heed,  lest  one  day  she  lead  you  to  worship  her  God — 
which  is  Satan  !  Get  thee  in-doors,  I  say.  Thou  shalt  hear 
more  anon,  that  will,  I  trow,  please  thee  less,  even  than  this 
that  I  have  spoken." 

Ruth  Whalley  looked  simply  and  innocently  into  the  stern 
man's  face,  while  he  spoke  ;  and,  as  he  finished  his  harangue, 
turned  quietly  away,  as  she  was  commanded,  and  moved  to 
ward  the  cottage-door.  Most  girls,  addressed,  as  she  was, 
»vith  such  a  volley  of  unmerited  reproof,  would  have  replied 
either  with  indignation,  or  with  fear  and  sorrow.  But  Ruth 
was  neither  vexed  nor  tearful.  Her  fair  face,  it  is  true,  grew 
somewhat  paler,  but  shed  no  tear,  nor  expressed  any  wonder. 


THE    FANATIC.  25 

Her  father's  bearing  was  a  matter  too  familiar,  too  much  of 
every-day  occurrence,  to  excite  astonishment,  or  even  to  call 
forth  active  sorrow.  He  was,  indeed,  a  hard  man.  One  of 
those  cold,  bitter,  avaricious,  selfish  natures,  which  owe  it, 
perhaps,  rather  to  the  chilliness  of  their  blood  and  the  lack  of 
temptation  or  of  opportunity,  than  to  anything  of  principle  or 
of  humanity,  that  they  fall  not  into  the  commission  of  great 
crimes. 

This,  Merciful  Whalley  had,  it  is  true,  avoided ;  he  had 
kept  his  hands,  it  is  true,  incorrupt  from  stealth,  unstained  from 
blood-guiltiness.  But  his  heart !  his  heart !  oh,  what  a  mass 
was  there,  of  envy,  selfishness,  uncharitableness,  malice,  slan 
der  |  —  and  if  he  set  his  hands,  as  he  often  boasted,  to  no  evil 
work,  assuredly  he  set  neither  his  lips  nor  his  mind  to  any 
good  one. 

Self-righteous,  self-esteemed,  self-arrogant,  self-justified,  he 
judged  all  men,  himself  excepted,  and  rarely  judged  but  to  con 
demn  them. 

It  is  probable  that,  from  his  childhood  up,  he  had  never  done 
an  act  of  charity  or  kindness,  unless  it  were  from  selfish  mo 
tives  ;  or  loved  a  human  being,  except  for  his  own  gratifica 
tion. 

Loud  in  the  meeting-house  or  conventicle,  loud  in  posses 
sions  of  all  virtue,  loud  in  denunciation  of  all  sinners,  he  was 
yet  louder  in  his  cold  domestic  tyranny.  The  very  dog  arose 
from  the  hearth,  and  shrunk  away  into  the  darkest  corner,  hear 
ing  its  master's  footstep  at  the  door.  Yet,  for  all  this,  without 
his  own  house,  though  feared  rather  than  liked,  Merciful  Whal 
ley  was  not  ill-esteemed  in  the  neighborhood. 

For  Merciful  was  well  to  do  in  the  world ;  and  in  the  opin 
ion  of  the  rich,  wealth,  in  a  neighbor,  is  a  great  coverer  of 
sins. 

Talk  not  of  charity  !     Charity  may  win  the  poor  man's  love  ; 

2 


26  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

but  is  it  not  a  tacit  censure  on  the  rich  man,  who  is  less  char 
itable  ? 

No  !  no  !  for  the  most  part  there  is  no  saint  in  the  rich  man's 
calendar  so  worshipful  as  the  richer  and  more  avaricious  men 
—  and  so  it  was  with  Whalley. 

His  deeds  of  benevolence  and  mercy  were  thorns  in  no 
neighbor  miser's  side  —  his  kindness  to  his  servants  or  depen 
dants  rebuked  no  man's  severity.  He  was  rich  ;  and  therefore 
most  worthy  the  highest  place  in  the  synagogue,  and  the  first 
seat  at  feasts. 

It  must  be  said,  however,  for  all  the  man's  cold  selfishness, 
and  lack  of  all  milk  of  human  kindness,  that  he  was  scrupulous 
ly  just  and  honest  in  his  dealings. 

He  never  had  oppressed  the  fatherless,  or  widows  ;  he  had 
removed  no  landmarks.  If  he  assisted  no  man,  he  wronged 
none.  If  he  forgave  no  failings  on  the  part  of  others,  he  asked 
no  forgiveness  for  his  own.  Perhaps  he  thought  he  had  him 
self  no  failings. 

He  certainly  would  have  been  astonished  to  hear  his  griping 
avarice,  which  he  denominated  painstaking  and  God-fearing 
thrift,  denounced  as  a  vice  ;  and  there  would  have  been  no 
end  to  his  marvelling,  had  it  been  insinuated  to  him  that  his 
austere  and  sour  port,  his  disgust  at  all  innocent  amusements, 
his  contempt  of  all  gentle  affections,  his  bitter  hatred  of  all 
whom  he  chose  to  designate  sinners — hatred  to  which  he 
often  gave  a  personal  and  persecuting  character* — were  more 
akin  to  evil  than  to  virtue. 

Originally,  he  might  perhaps  have  been  a  self-tormentor ;  he 
had  now  degenerated  (this  at  least  is  certain)  into  a  tormentor 
of  others.  With  him,  all  love  was  lust ;  all  Christian  charity, 
a  weak  countenancing  of  sinners ;  all  mirth,  wantonness ;  all 
humanity,  a  tampering  with  the  evil  one. 

He  was  one  of  those,  in  short,  who  deem  a  stern,  morose 


THE    FANATIC.  27 

countenance,  a  cold  and  unfeeling  heart,  the  surest  signs  of 
grace  ;  who  cherished  his  worst  vices  as  the  most  fruitful  vir 
tues  ;  who  deemed  himself  superior  to  his  fellow-men,  for  the 
very  lack  of  those  qualities  which  bring  them  nearest  to  the 
angels,  and  for  the  plenteousness  of  those  which  most  assimi 
late  them  to  the  brutes  that  perish. 

Merciful  Whalley  was,  in  one  word,  a  man  —  such  as  whom 
there  are,  at  all  times,  but  too  many  in  the  world,  but  who  in 
that  age  especially  abounded  —  who  bring  virtue  into  more  dis 
repute,  and  work  more  evil  to  the  cause  of  righteousness,  than 
the*  most  scarlet  sinners. 

A  man,  who  in  all  his  practice'  converted  the  beauty  of  holi-     i 
ness  into  deformity -V  who  would  have  changed  the  heart  of 
man,  destined  by  its  Creator  to  be  the  shrine  of  all  sweet  a.nd 
pure  affections,  into  a  temple  consecrated  to  the  twin  fiends     V 
self  and  mammon ;  and  the  fair  world,  with  all  its  beauty  and 
its  joy,  into  a  very  hell. 

Such  was  the  father,  who  scowled  on  his  pure  and  lovely 
child  ;  reproached  her  with  rude  and  angry  words  ;  and  half 
believed  her  to  be  a  vessel  of  wrath,  because  she  was,  what 
the  good  God  intended  that  we  all  should  be,  joyous  herself, 
and  a  minister  of  joy  to  others. 

He  scowled  upon  her  grimly,  as  she  went  her  way  obedient 
to  his  bidding ;  and  felt  more  than  a  partial  inclination  to  call 
her  back,  and  reprove  her  for  that  very  obedience  and  submis 
sion,  as  savoring  of  hypocrisy  and  scorning. 

But  he  restrained  his  spite,  to  vent  it  upon  other  objects, 
strode  after  her,  gloomy  and  grim,  and  entered  the  door  of  his 
own  home,  to  stand  before  his  family,  a  being  dreaded  and 
severed,  rather  than  trusted  or  beloved,  by  all  around  him. 


28  THE    FAIR    PURTTAH. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE    FIRESIDE. 
"  0  quid  solutis  est  beatius  curis." 

THERE  is  no  happier  scene  on  earth,  none  upon  which  good 
angels  may  be  supposed  to  look  with  more  complacency,  than 
the  assemblage  round  the  evening  fire,  of  a  united,  happy,  lov 
ing  family  :  when  the  overburdened  mind  throws  off  its  load 
of  cares  and  anxieties ;  when  the  exhausted  body  enjoys  that 
respite,  which  itself  is  pleasure,  from  the  labors  of  the  day ; 
when  the  heart,  weary  and  faint  with  struggling  against  the 
coldness  and  selfishness  of  the  outer- world,  comes  back,  like  a 
bird  to  its  nest,  to  repose  confidently  on  the  affections  and  de 
votion  of  the  tried  and  trusted  few. 

Of  all  the  blessings,  for  which  man  should  thank  God,  daily 
and  for  ever,  and  of  which,  alas  !  he  is  ever  too  regardless  until 
their  loss  has  taught  him  their  true  value,  this  is  the  choicest 
gift. 

And  if  there  be  an  error,  which  treads  closer  on  the  heel  of 
sin  than  any  other,  it  is  that  of  the  man,  who  by  negligence,  or 
selfishness,  or  hardness  of  heart,  converts  this  blessing  into  a 
curse,  steeps  this  light  of  humanity  in  cold  and  cheerless  gloom. 

There  was  no  lack  of  comfort  around  the  hearth  or  in  the 
rustic  kitchen  of  the  "  Cove  cottage." 

A  blaze,  almost  like  that  of  a  furnace,  went  roaring  up  the 
wide  open  chimney ;  nor,  though  it  was  summer-time,  was  the 
warmth  unpleasant,  so  freshly  did  the  moist  sea-breeze  sweep 
in  through  the  open  lattices,  from  the  broad  Atlantic,  and  so 


THE    FIRESIDE.  29 

cool  did  the  overhanging  rocks,  and  the  sun-proof  shelter  of 
the  pine-trees  render  that  shady  nook.  There  was  no  lack  of 
wealth.  In  the  midst  of  that  cheerful  blaze,  hung  a  huge  cal 
dron,  from  which  issued  an  incessant  simmering  song,  and  a 
rich,  steamy  odor,  prophetic  of  a  savory  meal. 

The  kitchen  was  a  long,  low  room,  floored,  roofed,  and 
wainscotted  with  unpainted  pine-wood  ;  but  every  part  of  it  was 
white,  almost  as  snow,  and  reddent,  if  I  may  so  express  myself, 
of  cleanliness.  From  the  huge  rafters  overhead  hung,  in  long 
rows,  a  goodly  show  of  venison  hams,  and  flitches  of  bears- 
meat,  interspersed  with  strings  of  onions,  and  bunches  of  sage, 
and  thyme,  and  other  culinary  herbs. 

The  ample  meal-tub,  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  the  harness- 
cask  of  pork,  and  the  barrel  of  salted  haddock  in  another,  at 
tested  the  ample  provision  made  for  the  creature  comforts  ; 
while  the  bright  range  of  pewter  plates,  glittering  like  silver 
on  the  shelves  above  the  dresser,  and  the  huge  oaken  chest, 
displaying  by  its  open  lid,  large  store  of  clean,  coarse  linen, 
perfumed  with  lavender,  and  rosemary,  spoke  volumes  for  the 
thrift  and  care  of  the  females  of  the  household. 

Was  not,  then,  Merciful  Whalley  a  pre-eminently  happy 
man  ? 

The  lord  had  increased  his  stores.  He  eat  the  labor  of  his 
hands  ;  Oh  !  well  was  it  to  him. 

His  wife  was  as  the  fruitful  vine  upon  the  walls  of  his  house. 

His  children  like  the  olive-branches  round  his  table.  Where 
fore,  then,  was  he  not  blessed  among  men,  and  happy  ? 

His  wife  the  chosen  of  his  bosom,  she  who  had  left  friends, 
home,  and  country,  to  follow  the  enthusiast  into  the  far  and 
fearful  wilderness  —  she,  who  had  once  shone  forth  the  pride 
and  beauty  of  a  sweet  English  village  —  what  was  she  now! 
did  she  look  like  one,  who  was  in  herself  happy,  or  the  parti 
cipant  of  another's  happiness  ? 


30  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

Wan,  faded  prematurely,  gray-haired,  not  certainly  from  the 
lapse  of  years,  hollow-eyed,  with  a  timid  stealthy  tread,  an 
anxious  glance,  like  that  of  a  hunted  animal,  a  weak  apolo 
getic  smile,  that  was  in  itself  unutterably  sad,  and  painful ! 

And  the  children,  the  olive-branches  round  the  righteous,  the 
rich  man's  table ! 

Goodly  in  form  and  feature,  excellent  in  stature,  healthy  and 
strong  and  handsome,  were  they  as  children  should  be  ;  as 
happy  children  are  ! 

Sweet  Ruth,  thou  wert  the  first-born,  and  to  a  parent  that 
appreciated  duly  that  priceless  gift  of  God,  a  dutiful  and  loving 
child,  what  a  treasure  wert  thou ! 

Four  others  were  assembled,  on  that  evening,  in  the  low 
kitchen — three  stout,  hearty  boys,  strong-limbed,  ruddy  com- 
plexioned,  and  not  without  a  certain  air  of  superiority,  to  the 
mere  drudging  rustic. 

The  eldest  of  the  three  might  perhaps  be  sixteen  or  seven 
teen  years  of  age,  the  youngest  twelve  ;  and  all  the  three,  as 
I  have  said,  were  comely  to  look  upon,  well  clad,  well  condi 
tioned.  What  was  it  then,  that  lent  so  strange  and  unnatural 
an  aspect  to  those  young  faces,  those  bright  eyes  that  should, 
to  fulfil  the  ends  of  their  all-kind  Creator,  have  been  alive  with 
innocent  and  artless  merriment. 

There  was  no  mirth  in  those  eyes  !  no  frankness,  no  ingenu 
ous  gleam  of  out-bursting  native  truth  in  those  youthful  features  ! 
no  sunshine  of  the  innocent  and  fearless  soul  on  those  faces  ! 

There  was  no  thought  in  those  smooth,  patient  brows. 

Instead  of  thinking,  active,  energetic,  and  impulsive  crea 
tures,  obedient  to  the  fresh,  noble  impulses  of  heart  and  nature 
— they  we^e  mere  passive,  listless,  senseless,  almost  soulless, 
agents  of  a  will  to  which  they  bowed,  not  in  the  least  that  they 
understood  or  loved  it,  but  that  it  was  stern  and  superior,  and 
enforced  absolute  submission. 


THE    FIRESIDE.  31 

Is  such  the  stuff  whereof  to  make  free  men,  good  citizens, 
and  Christians,  or  slaves,  rogues,  and  hypocrites  ? 

The  fifth  was  a  little,  little  girl  not  above  four  years  old  — 
two  intermediate  children  had  died  infants  —  and  this  was  now 
the  youngest,  and  would  have  been  the  pet  of  any  other  family. 
A  lovely  babe  she  was,  with  large,  soft,  hazel  eyes,  like  her 
sister's,  and  a  profusion  of  light-brown  silky  hair,  falling  in 
natural  curls  over  her  neck  and  shoulders.  But  even  she,  this 
tiny,  prattling  babe,  that  should  thus  far  at  least  have  been  pre 
served  aloof  from  fear — which  to  weak  natures  is  so  often  the 
first  cause  of  sin  —  that  should  have  been  all  glee,  and  merri 
ment,  and  love,  she  like  the  rest  was  grave  and  silent  in  her 
little  plays,  with  an  air  of  unnatural  constraint  pervading  her 
whole  manner,  and  a  shy,  sidelong  look  that  seemed  to  be  con 
tinually  expectant  of  a  chiding. 

This  little  one  sat  on  the  sanded  floor,  between  the  table, 
which  was  spread  for  the  evening  meal,  and  the  glowing  hearth, 
holding  in  her  lap  a  favorite  kitten,  and  playing  with  it  gently, 
but  neither  laughing  aloud,  nor  crowing  and  shouting,  as  most 
children  of  her  age  would  have  done. 

The  boys  lounged  idly  on  the  rude  wooden  chairs  and  bench 
es,  which  surrounded  the  walls  of  the  room  ;  the  day's  work 
was  finished  ;  their  hands  were  unoccupied.  It  would  seem 
that  their  minds  were  as  much  so.  Conversation  they  had 
none  ;  books  they  had  none  ;  with  the  exception  of  the  Bible  — 
which,  alas  the  day  !  had  been  rendered  distasteful  to  them, 
by  being  forced  upon  them  as  a  penance  and  a  task,  at  an  ago 
when  the  intellect  is  too  feeble  to  grasp  its  consolations,  or 
comprehend  its  glorious  promises — and  a  few  tracts,  so  stern,  so 
savage,  and  so  unrelenting  in  their  morality,  so  utterly  unchar 
itable  in  their  tendency,  and  so  disgusting,  not  to  say  blasphe 
mous,  in  their  language,  that  it  required  no  adventitious  cause 


32  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

of  dislike  to  deter  the  young  men  from  opening  their  denunci 
atory  pages. 

The  mother  of  this  sad-eyed  and  gloomy  family  went  to  and 
fro,  from  one  room  to  another,  intent  upon  her  household  du 
ties  ;  but  she  performed  them,  as  it  were,  mechanically,  and 
with  nothing  of  that  joyous  interest,  that  hope  of  pleasing,  that 
certainty  of  meriting  and  meeting  approbation,  which  renders 
even  the  most  ungrateful  toils  in  some  sort  agreeable,  when 
undertaken  in  behalf  of  those  whom  we  love. 

There  was  one  other  person  present  in  the  room  ;  and  that  one 
so  remarkable,  that  he  must  not  be  lightly  passed  over,  although 
he  sat  mute  and  motionless  in  the  chimney  corner,  never  turn 
ing  his  eyes  toward  any  of  the  family — of  his  family,  which 
was  collected  about  him,  or  appearing  to  take  the  smallest  no 
tice  of  anything  that  was  passing. 

He  was  a  tall,  dark,  stern  old  man,  apparently  near  eighty 
years  of  age.  But  those  years,  though  they  had  been  spent  in 
hardship,  in  warfare,  in  toil,  and  in  exile,  left  many  traces,  on 
his  marked  face,  and  sinewy  though  lean  and  emaciated  frame. 
He  sat  perfectly  erect  in  his  chair,  with  his  arms  resting 
squarely  on  its  elbows,  and  his  dark  clear  eyes  fixed  on  va 
cancy.  The  muscles  of  his  mouth,  which  were  as  hard  as 
iron,  and  showed  a  will  as  indomitable,  never  relaxed  into  a 
smile.  He  seemed  to  live  on  memory  only,  and  on  the  past; 
so  little  heed  did  he  take  of  any  sublunary  matters. 

Sometimes,  if  any  of  the  children  spoke  louder  than  their 
custom,  much  more  if  they  laughed  aloud,  or  if  the  babe  set  up, 
as  it  would  do  at  rare  intervals  forgetful,  a  shrill,  childish  laugh, 
he  would  look  quickly  at  the  offender,  with  an  expression  of 
eye  that  would  alone  have  sufficed  to  awe  him  into  silence, 
without  the  harshly  intonated  "  Peace  !"  which  was  sure  to 
follow  that  dark  glance,  in  accents  which  were  anything  rath 
er  than  pacific. 


THE    FIRESIDE.  33 

Sometimes,  when  no  one  spoke  or  moved,  when  not  a  sound 
was  to  be  heard  save  the  low  whisper  of  the  sea  breeze  in  the 
pinetops,  or  the  deep  monotonous  inrolling  of  the  surf*  he  would 
start,  as  if  at  some  fearful  voice  in  his  ear,  and  gaze  around 
him  wildly,  almost  fearfully,  and  clutch  at  the  left  side  of  his 
girdle,  with  his  thin,  bony  hands,  as  if  to  find  a  weapon. 

Then,  in  a  moment,  as  if  recovering  from  his  trance,  he 
would  shake  his  head  with  a  sort  of  angry  and  impatient  sor 
row,  and  relapse  into  his  day-long  musings. 

Yet  singular  as  was  his  manner,  and  dark  as  was  the  cloud 
which,  it  would  seem,  had  settled  down  not  only  on  his  fea 
tures,  but  on  his  secret  soul,  there  was  nothing  morose,  or 
mean,  or  cruel  about  the  old  man's  features. 

Stern  indeed  he  was,  but  with  the  sternness  that  is  severer 
upon  himself  than  human  nature.  Hard,  self-denying,  and 
ascetical,  yet  full  withal  of  high  and  noble  purposes,  enthusi 
astic,  and  a  dreamer  of  great  things,  fanatical  perhaps  and 
wild,  but  zealous  and  sincere,  and  an  appreciator  of  sincerity 
in  others. 

Such  had  that  old  man  been,  in  his  days  of  eminence  and 
power  —  for  he  had  been  both  eminent  and  powerful  —  before 
exile  and  persecution  had  thoroughly  distorted  a  mind,  perhaps 
erratic  in  its  natural  tendency,  and  almost  quenched  its  wild 
and  penetrating  radiance  in  silent  gloom  and  torpor. 

His  hair  was  as  white  as  snow,  as  were  his  shaggy  eye 
brows,  and  the  heavy  mustache,  and  pointed  beard,  which  still 
clothed  his  upper  lip  and  chin. 

His  dress  was  a  long-waisted  and  close-fitting  jerkin  of  black 
serge,  with  a  white  linen  band,  loose,  black  trunk-hose,  and 
coarse,  gray,  woollen  stockings.  He  wore  a  broad,  buff  belt 
about  his  waist,  and  it  might  well  be  that  the  long  basket-hilted 
tuck,  or  broadsword,  which  hung  in  its  steel  scabbard,  besides 
a  morion  and  horseman's  inusquetoon  over  the  mantlepiece,  had 


34  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

once  swung  from  it  on  his  thigh,  and  clashed  on  spur  and  stir 
rup  amid  the  stormy  rush  of  squadrons. 

No  weapon  graced  it  now,  however,  but  an  oak  staff  with 
a  brass  ferrule  leaned  against  the  elbow-chair  in  which  he  sat 
unconscious,  and  a  tall,  steeple-crowned  hat,  lay  with  a  large, 
black  cloak,  near  at  hand,  in  case  of  his  choosing  to  go  abroad. 

Such  was  the  aspect  of  the  room,  and  such  the  looks  and 
occupation  of  the  company,  when  lifting  the  latch  gently,  and 
entering  without  any  smile  or  greeting,  Ruth  Whalley  joined, 
after  her  short  conversation  with  the  master  of  the  house. 

"  Father  is  coming,"  she  said  quietly,  "  and  I  much  fear  he 
brings  evil  tidings  ;  for  he  seems  anxious  and  disquieted." 

At  the  word  '  father,'  instead  of  rising  with  alacrity  and  joy 
to  meet  him,  the  three  boys  moved  in  their  chairs  uneasily,  and 
drew  themselves  up  into  erect  and  rigid  attitudes,  and  then  the 
elder  reached  the  Bible  from  a  desk,  whereon  it  lay,  and  open 
ing  it  at  random,  began  to  study  it  with  diligence. 

The  child  that  was  playing  on  the  hearth,  jumped  up,  and 
dropped  her  kitten,  which  took  refuge,  as  soon  as  the  heavy 
step  of  Merciful  became  audible  without,  under  the  chair  where 
on  the  old  man  was  sitting. 

A  vague  expression  of  distrust,  almost  of  fear,  crossed  the 
babe's  face  ;  and  running  to  her  mother's  side,  she  clutched  her 
grogram  gown  with  both  hands,  as  if  she  were  flying  from  an 
enemy. 

The  mother  spoke  not,  but  looked  up  and  interchanged  a 
speaking  glance  with  Ruth,  lifted  the  little  one  in  her  arms, 
and  pressed  it  to  her  bosom.;  then  heaving  a  long,  painful  sigh, 
pursued  her  household  occupations. 

The  door  opened  abruptly ;  and,  uttering  no  kindly  word, 
unloving,  and  unwelcomed,  the  austere  man  crossed  the  thresh 
old  of  that,  to  gracious  hearts,  the  sweetest  sanctuary,  his  own 
home. 


THE    EVENING    MEAL.  35 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE    EVENING    MEAL. 
"  Desideratoque  tandem  acquiescere  lecto." 

WITH  a  deliberate  and  searching  glance,  Merciful  Whalley 
noted  all  that  was  passing,  as  he  entered,  ere  he  spoke  ;  and 
when  he  did  speak,  it  was  with  the  cold  authoritative  manner 
which  long  habit  had  made  now  a  part  almost,  of  his  nature. 

"  Gideon,"  he  said,  addressing  the  eldest  of  the  boys,  "  take 
down  the  boat-locks,  and  the  keys,  and  make  all  fast  for  the 
night.  And,  mark  me,  whose  duty  was  it  to  see  to  the  drying 
of  the  Seine?" 

"  Abner's,  to-day,  sir,"  answered  the  second,  growing  very  red 
in  the  face.  "  I  calked  the  seams  of  the  '  Good  Hope,'  this 
morning  —  " 

"  And  in  the  afternoon  ?"  inquired  his  father,  with  a  piercing 
glance. 

"  I  was  out  on  the  reef  with  Gideon  catching  tautaugs,"  re 
plied  the  boy  timidly. 

"  Ha  !  couldst  thou  find  naught  to  do,  more  pressing  ?  Ab- 
ner,  thou  wilt  go  supperless  to  bed ;  and  think  thyself  dealt  but  too 
leniently  withal,  that  I  do  not  chastise  thee  soundly — the  wind 
hath  blown  the  new  seine  on  the  stakes,  and  torn  a  rent  in  it, 
of  a  yard  long,  and  upward.  Go  fetch  it  up,  and  secure  it  on 
the  upper  railings.  Enoch,  go  help  thy  brother." 

Never  did  eastern  slaves  obey  their  master,  with  more  prompt 
obedience  ;  but  it  was  all  mechanical,  eye-service  all,  done 
grudgingly,  for  fear,  and  not  for  love. 

When  they  had  left  the  room,  he  took  off  the  high-crowned 


36  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

hat,  which  he  had  not  removed  before,  wiped  his  brow  with 
the  back  of  his  broad  hand,  and  setting  his  long  musket  down 
in  the  chimney-corner,  threw  himself  into  the  chair,  which 
Enoch  had  lately  vacated,  opposite  to  the  old  man,  who  had 
not  altered  his  position,  or  seemed  to  be  aware  of  his  son's 
entran.ce. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time,  did  anything  resembling  a  hu 
man  expression  cross  the  dark  features  of  the  Puritan.  As  he 
gazed  on  the  old  man,  who  sat  there,  all  unconscious  of  the 
wild  storrn  that  was  brewing,  buried  in  his  own  wilder  recol 
lections,  the  muscles  of  the  austere  man's  mouth  worked  visi 
bly,  and  something  like  a  drop  of  passing  moisture  twinkled 
upon  the  lashes  of  his  cold,  hard  eye. 

His  beautiful  child  had  been  watching  him  with  tender  and 
almost  compassionate  solicitude.  She  alone  pitied  and  loved, 
more  than  she  feared,  her  father. 

The  wife  of  that  stern  man's  bosom,  who  once  would  have 
laid  down  her  life  to  soothe  his  slightest  sorrow,  was  now  so 
shy,  so  timid,  and  so  spirit-broken,  that  she  no  longer  dared  so 
much  as  to  intrude  her  consolation  on  one  whose  afflictions 
were  for  the  most  part  of  his  own  creating,  and  far  beyond  the 
sphere  of  any  mortal  comforter. 

To  his  boys  he  was  only  the  oppressive  taskmaster,  the 
rigid  and  unbending  tyrant. 

But  to  Ruth,  exquisite  Ruth,  he  was  not  only  the  revered 
father,  but  the  unhappy,  self-tormented  man.  She  never  asked, 
never  considered,  whence  his  sorrows  ;  she  saw  that  they  were 
sorrows,  and,  whether  real  or  imaginary,  it  was  enough  for  her 
to  know  that  they  did  pierce  his  hard  heart  to  the  core,  and 
wring  from  him  groans  of  agony,  which  she  had  heard  in  the 
dead  of  night,  when  all  save  she  were  sleeping,  and  she  watching 
in  fear  and  sadness  at  the  door  of  the  conscience-stricken  sufferer. 

Perhaps,  had  he  been  milder  in  his  mood,  more  human  in 


THE    EVENING    MEAL.  37 

his  affections,  more  accessible  in  his  sorrow  —  perhaps,  I  say, 
she  had  then  loved  him  less. 

Now,  as  she  saw  him  alienating  all  around  him  by  his  black 
mood,  till  she  alone  of  all  his  family  had  any  sympathy  with 
him  ;  compassion,  the  true  woman's  instinct,  the  tenderness 
which  flows  but  the  more  abundantly  the  more  exactingly  it  is 
demanded,  attracted  her  to  him  irresistibly.  And  ere  long  she 
felt  that,  in  some  sort,  he  reposed  on  her,  and  rested  the  frailty 
of  his  disordered  manhood  on  the  immovable  strength  of  her 
feminine  affections. 

From  that  day  forth  —  from  the  hour  and  the  minute  in 
which  she  felt  herself  to  be  the  staff  and  support  of  that  un 
happy  and  wrong-minded  parent  —  no  coldness  could  have 
frozen,  no  violence  turned  back,  the  warm  tide  of  her  sympa 
thies,  the  depth  of  her  devotion. 

And,  to  do  justice  to  the  man,  although  he  rarely  smiled  on 
her  —  for  smiles  were  strangers  to  his  gloomy  nature — al 
though  to  her,  as  to  all  the  rest,  he  was  indifferent,  severe,  and 
cold,  yet  to  her,  and  to  her  alone,  he  was  never  violent,  and 
rarely  harsh  or  bitter. 

He  would  gaze  at  her  often  with  a  softened  eye,  and  as  that 
eye  would  dwell  on  her  pure  face,  right  index  of  her  spotless 
mind,  his  heart  would  expand,  as  far  as  it  was  capable  of  ex 
pansion  ;  and  he  would  smite  his  breast,  and  mourn  over  what 
he  deemed  her  perilous  and  lost  condition  ;  even,  he  would 
himself  have  said,  "  as  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and 
would  not  be  comforted." 

Sometimes,  he  would  even  listen  to  her  voice,  and  give  him 
self  for  a  while  to  softer  feelings,  as  her  low,  silvery  tones 
warbled  the  precious  songs  of  David  ;  and  he  would  liken  her 
strains  to  the  prophet-king's  inspired  minstrelsey,  "  when  he 
took  a  harp  and  played  with  his  hand,  so  Saul  was  refreshed, 
and  was  well,  and  the  evil  spirit  departed  from  him." 


38  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

And  therefore  she  loved  him  ;  and  if  her  love  was  mixed 
with  fear,  it  was  not  lessened  by  it.  And  what  mortal  feeling 
is  there  so  pure,  that  it  has  not  some  touch  of  evil  in  it,  when 
ever  the  true  Christian's  love  for  his  Lord  and  teacher  can  not 
divest  itself  entirely  of  some  sordid  thoughts  of  self? 

As  pure,  however,  as  any  human  sentiment  can  be,  was 
sweet  Ruth  Whalley's  tenderness  toward  that  cold-hearted  and 
uninteresting  man.  And  now,  as  she  observed  the  anguish  of 
his  soul,  while  he  gazed  silently  in  his  own  father's  face,  she 
was  the  more  convinced,  of  what  she  had  been  led  to  suspect 
by  his  unusual  sharpness  to  herself,  that  some  deep,  real  sor 
row,  some  actual  affliction,  was  at  hand,  which  had  disturbed 
him,  almost  beyond  endurance. 

Her  heart  yearned  to  him.  Her  beautiful  brown  eyes  were 
filled  to  overflowing  with  tears,  which  it  cost  her  a  mighty 
effort  to  repress,  as  she  crossed  the  room  gently,  and  seating 
herself  on  a  low  stool  by  his  side,  took  one  of  his  large  weather- 
beaten  hands,  and  pressed  it  lovingly  in  her  soft,  slender  fingers. 

It  almost  seemed  to  burn  her,  as  she  took  it ;  so  hotly  did 
the  fever  of  his  distempered  spirit  drive  the  blood  through  his 
veins,  swollen  well  nigh  to  bursting. 

"  Father,"  she  said  in  a  soft,  tremulous  whisper,  so  low  that 
it  reached  no  ear  but  his,  "  dear,  dearest  father  !" 

The  Puritan  looked  down  upon  her  for  a  moment ;  and  it 
may  be  that  his  spirit  smote  him  for  his  unkindness.  For  the 
moisture,  that  had  scarce  gemmed  his  eyelash,  swelled  into  a 
full  tear,  slid  down  his  wrinkled  cheek,  and  fell  heavily  upon 
his  daughter's  hand.  Still  he  was  not  ashamed,  but  laid  his 
broad  palm  on  the  soft,  glossy  curls  that  covered  her  fair  head, 
and  replied  to  her  caress,  saying,  like  her,  in  a  low  voice  — 

"  Thou  art  a  good  child,  Ruth ;  so  far  as  one  of  us  misera 
ble  sinners  may  be  called  good  ;  and  I  believe  thou  lovest  me. 
Would,  0  my  child,  would  God !  thou  didst  so  love  thy 


THE    EVENING    MEAL.  39 

Lord,  and  hatedst  me,  who  am  but  as  a  worm,  as  a  vile  potsherd, 
to  be  trodden  under  foot,  or  dashed  piecemeal  in  his  day  of 
indignation!  While  HE,  wouldst  thou  but  turn  thy  love  to 
him,  can  save  thy  soul  alive !" 

"  I  can  not  prove  how  fervently  I  love  HIM  better,  than  by 
obedience  to  his  word,  by  honoring,  I  mean,  my  father,  and 
ministering,  if  he  will  permit  me,  to  his  sorrows." 

"  Alas !  alas !  for  the  false  doctrine !"  groaned  the  enthu 
siast  aloud.  <;  Knowest  thou  not,  wretched  child,  that  he 
taught,  '  if  any  man  come  to  me,  and  hate  not  his  father  and 
his  mother,  he  can  not  be  my  disciple'  ?" 

"  And  yet,  my  father,"  returned  the  gentle  girl,  nothing 
abashed  or  disconcerted  by  his  perverse  and  blind  adherence 
to  the  letter  of  one  single  text,  "  the  Lord  blessed  Ruth,  my 
namesake;  who  hated  not  her  mother  Naomi,  but  '  loved 
her,  above  all  earthly  things,  and  cherished  her,  and  left  for 
her,  home,  kindred,  friends,  and  country ;  and  went  for  her 
to  glean  in  a  far  land,  even  in  the  fields  of  Boaz.  And  yet, 
my  father,  the  Lord  blessed  Ruth,  and  gave  to  her  prosperity, 
and  peace,  and  happiness  exceeding,  upon  earth.  May  he  do 
so  to  this  his  servant  likewise,  and  more  also  ;  not  in  this  per 
ishable  world,  but  in  his  holy  heavens  !" 

"Amen!  Amen!"  replied  the  hard  man,  for  the  moment, 
wholly  subdued  and  conquered  by  the  pure  faith  and  humility 
of  his  fair  child. 

A  momentary  silence  followed,  for  Merciful,  as  often  hap 
pens  with  men  of  his  moody  temperament,  was  more  ashamed 
of  the  bitter  feelings  he  had  displayed,  than  he  had  ever  been, 
of  the  worst  acts  of  his  lifetime. 

Ruth  was  too  timid  and  too  inexperienced  to  follow  up  the 
advantage  she  had  gained  :  and  the  same  cold  and  heart-chil 
ling  reserve,  which  had  prevailed  before  her  gentle  effort,  was 
again  falling  on  the  domestic  circle,  when  the  door  opened, 


40  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

and  the  boys  returned,  their  tasks  performed,  to  the  fireside, 
creating  a  momentary  bustle  by  their  entrance. 

Almost  at  the  same  instant  the  mother  came  in  from  a  dif 
ferent  direction,  followed  by  Tituba,  the  Indian  girl,  bringing 
with  them,  hot  cakes,  and  bowls  of  milk,  and  butter,  such  as 
was  set  before  Sisera  of  old,  and  all  the  preparations  for  an 
abundant  evening  meal. 

The  caldron  was  removed  from  the  iron  hook  on  which  it 
hung,  and  its  contents,  which  proved  to  be  that  standing  dain 
ty  of  New  England,  a  rich  chowder,  were  poured  into  a  large 
tureen  of  Delft  ware. 

Then  the  pale  mother  stepped  up  to  her  lord,  and  announced 
to  him,  with  bated  breath  and  a  downcast  eye,  that  supper  was 
ready,  if  he  would  please  to  partake  of  it. 

Heaving  a  deep  sigh,  that  was  almost  a  groan,  the  Puritan 
rose  from  his  seat  reluctantly,  as  if  he  considered  it  the  most 
unpleasant  and  sinful  thing  in  the  world  to  taste  the  bread  for 
which  we  are  taught  to  pray  daily. 

When  he  had  risen  to  his  feet,  however,  his  conduct  showed 
one  of  those  strong  redeeming  points,  the  existence  of  which 
prevented  his  character  from  being  altogether,  and  intolerably 
odious — his  deep  affection,  namely,  and  respect  for  his  old, 
impotent,  and  dreaming  father. 

It  seemed  as  if  in  that  one  feeling  toward  that  one  person 
were  absorbed  all  his  capabilities  of  loving.  As  if  the  passion 
which  he  once  had  felt  for  the  partner  of  his  lot.  whether  it 
should  be  good  or  evil,  the  paternal  tenderness  with  which  all 
men  regard  the  offspring  of  their  bed,  the  very  patriotism 
which  had  once  burned  so  fiercely  in  his  bosom,  were  all 
merged  and  concentred  in  his  devotion  to  his  aged  father. 

To  him,  as  Hector  to  Andromache,  that  old  man  stood  in 
lieu  of  all  other  ties,  all  other  kindred.  He  was  to  him  as 
wife,  and  children,  brethren,  and  home,  and  country. 


THE    EVENING    MEAL.  41 

And  now,  as  timidly  as  a  short  time  before  his  wife  had 
stood  before  him,  inviting  him  to  the  well-provided  table,  he 
stood  before  the  white-haired  elder,  and  begged  him,  with  a 
voice  as  humble,  to  rise  and  come  to  supper. 

Thrice  was  he  compelled  to  renew  his  bidding,  before  his 
father  comprehended  him. 

When  he  first  spoke,  the  old  man  started  as  if  aroused  from 
sleep,  and  gazed  with  unmeaning  eyes  into  his  son's  face. 
At  the  second  invitation  he  drew  his  hand  across  his  brow,  as 
if  to  clear  away  the  mists  which  time  and  powerful  memories 
had  gathered  round  him,  and  then  shook  his  head  half-wist- 
fully,  half-sorrowfully,  as  if  conscious  of  his  own  infirmity. 

Then,  with  a  mighty  effort,  he  seemed  to  collect  his  mind ; 
and,  at  the  third  summons,  arose  calm  and  quiet,  with  the 
graceful  ease  of  a  gentleman,  and  simply  saying  — 

"  I  crave  your  pardon,  son  Merciful  ;  I  was  busy  with  old 
times,"  he  moved  steadily  across  the  floor  without  assistance, 
and  took  his  place  in  a  high-backed  arm-chair,  at  the  head  of 
the  board. 

Then  Merciful  drew  near  the  table,  and  clasping  his  hands, 
uttered  a  long  and  vehement  prayer,  full  of  denunciations  of 
that  sinful  and  headstrong  generation,  of  dark  anticipations  of 
the  wrath  to  come,  and  of  expostulatory  and  familiar  arguments 
with  the  Almighty,  such  as  to  better-regulated  minds  would 
appear  almost  blasphemous.  This  strange  grace  ended,  he 
took  his  seat,  distributed  the  plenteous  viands  in  silence  to  the 
members  of  his  family ;  and  that  done,  fed  in  silence,  with 
an  immoderate  and  wolfish  appetite. 

Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken  during  that  gloomy  and  un 
social  meal,  unless  it  were  a  passing  request  to  be  helped  to 
the  contents  of  this  or  that  dish,  until  toward  the  end  of  the 
repast,  when  a  strange  scene  occurred,  which  led  in  the  end 
to  strange  and  fearful  consequences. 


42  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

CHAPTER   VI. 

THE    INDIAN. 

"  With  whom  revenge  is  virtue." 

DURING  the  progress  of  supper  which  was  by  no  means 
hurried — for,  although  they  divested  their  meals  of  all  intellec 
tual  or  social  character  by  the  austere  silence  in  which  they 
partook  them,  the  Puritans  were  far  from  being  averse  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  table  —  during  the  progress  of  supper  the  In 
dian  girl  stood,  with  a  sullen  cloud  overshadowing  her  comely 
features,  through  which  there  flashed  at  times  a  gleam  of  un 
governable  hatred  and  ferocity,  behind  the  chair  of  her  master, 
Merciful.  It  seemed  to  be  only  by  a  great  effort  that  she  re 
frained  from  some  display  of  violent  temper,  when  she  was  called 
upon  to  assist  him  to  any  of  the  condiments  or  eatables  which 
he  required.  And  it  was,  perhaps,  well  for  her  that  his  mind 
was  absorbed  so  completely  in  the  consideration  of  the  tidings 
that  he  had,  that  day,  received  in  Boston,  that  he  took  no  note 
of  the  Indian  girl's  changed  and  disrespectful  demeanor. 

It  was  not,  however,  destined  that  the  evening  should  pass 
over,  without  an  explosion  ;  and,  singular  as  it  might  seem, 
sweet  Ruth  was  the  immediate,  though  most  involuntarily, 
cause  of  the  outbreak. 

She  had,  that  very  evening,  promised  the  poor  drudge  that 
she  would  never  address  her  by  the  name  of  Patience  ;  rightly 
attaching  small  importance  to  a  mere  word,  and  deeming  it  of 
far  greater  consequence  to  conciliate  the  mind  of  the  poor 
heathen,  by  kindness  and  judicious  teaching,  than  to  irritate 
and  revolt  her  feelings  by  the  continued  application  of  a  term, 
which  she  abhorred,  and  probably  esteemed  degrading. 


THE    INDIAN.  43 

It  is  true,  when  she  made  that  promise,  Ruth  had  not  fully 
envisaged  the  anger,  which  her  rejection  of  the  Christian  ap 
pellation  he  had  chosen  for  the  bondwoman,  was  likely  to 
arouse  in  her  father. 

Perhaps  she  overrated  her  influence  over  his  evil  mood,  and 
fancied  that  the  milder  temper  he  had  exhibited  for  a  little 
space  that  evening,  would  be  of  more  endurance  than  it  indeed 
was. 

However  this  might  be,  when  the  supper  was  nearly  at  an 
end,  she  raised  her  eyes  with  a  gentle  smile  to  the  bondwo 
man's  face,  and  said  in  her  musical  and  winning  tones, 

"  Will  you  not  give  me  a  glass  of  fair,  spring  water,  Ti- 
tuba  ?" 

At  the  sound  of  the  forbidden  word,  Enoch,  the  second  of  her 
brotbers,  started  and  let  fall  his  knife  upon  the  pewter  platter, 
calling  thereby  his  father's  indignation  on  himself,  no  less  than 
his  attention  to  his  sister's  dereliction. 

"  Leave  the  board,  Enoch,"  said  the  deep  voice  of  Merciful, 
"since  thou  canst  not  behave  decorously.  And  thou,  Ruth, 
what  meaneth  this,  that  thou  callest  yon  dark-skinned  daughter 
of  the  evil  race  by  the  foul  name  which  marks  her  out  unto 
perdition  ?" 

"  It  is  her  own  name,  father,"  replied  the  gentle  girl,  "  the 
name  that  recalls  to  her  the  wild  home  of  her  childhood,  the 
mother  who  lulled  her  infancy,  the  little  brethren  who  played 
around  her.  She  loves  her  own  name,  father.  It  speaks  to 
her  of  the  days  when  she  was  free  ;  when  her  people  were  a 
great  nation.  —  Oh  !  suffer  her,  I  pray  you,  to  be  called  Tituba. 
She  hates  the  name  of  Patience.  I  do  not  think  that  there 
can  be  so  much  in  a  mere  name." 

"  Thou  dost  not  think  !"  exclaimed  the  Puritan,  his  cold, 
black  eyes  dilating  with  astonishment,  and  his  iron  mouth  dis 
torted  into  a  grim,  sarcastic  smile.  "  And  who  taught  thee  to 


44 


THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 


think  ?  Who  made  thee,  if  I  be  not  overbold  to  ask  it,  a  teach 
er  in  Israel  ?  Wo  !  wo  !  rebellion  and  perversity  of  heart ! 
Wo  !  wo  !  and  alas  !  that,  on  this  night  of  tribulation,  when  it 
has  pleased  the  Lord  to  try  this  house  in  a  hot  furnace  of  af 
fliction,  alas  !  I  say,  that  on  this  night,  I  should  hear  from  the 
lips  of  child  of  mine,  such  blasphemy  against  the  Lord's  most 
holy  ordinance  of  baptism,  with  water  and  the  Spirit.  Go  !  go  ! 
my  wretched  and  misbelieving  child,  go  to  thy  chamber,  mor 
tify  thy  soul  with  prayer  and  humiliation,  and  this  pride  of  thy 
soul  with  fasting.  And  thou,  swart  child  of  sin,  see  what  the 
evil  of  thy  heart  hath  wrought  of  sorrow  to  thy  young  mistress. 
Beware,  that  I  hear  no  more  of  this,  or  thou  shalt  rue  it  long 
and  sorely.  Pray  to  the  Christian's  God,  pray  that  thou  may- 
est  believe  ;  Patience  thou  art,  and  Patience — " 

"  Patience,  I  am  not!"  replied  the  Indian  girl,  haughtily,  but 
not  angrily  ;  and  it  was  remarkable,  that,  under  the  influence 
of  pride  and  excited  feeling,  she  no  longer  spoke  in  broken 
English,  or  expressed  her  thoughts  with  difficulty.  "  White 
man,  my  name  is  Tituba  —  my  mother's  brother  was  great 
Miantonomah,  the  war-chief  of  the  mighty,  the  free,  Narra- 
gansets ! 

"  White  man,  my  tribe  were  lords  of  all  the  land  thy  greedy 
eyes  have  looked  upon,  ages  before  thy  big  canoes  crossed  the 
great  lake,  to  make  them  slaves,  and  wretched. 

"  White  man,  my  people  were  the  chiefs  of  that  great  tribe. 

"  And  what  is  the  white  man  that  he  should  rob  the  Indian, 
not  of  the  land  only  and  the  liberty,  which  the  Great  Spirit 
gave  him,  but  of  his  very  name  and  nature  ? 

"  The  white  man  is  a  tyrant  to  his  slave,  a  dog  to  his  ene 
my  !  —  The  white  man's  God  is  a  devil,  if  white  men  do  his 
bidding ! 

"  Hear  my  words,  white  man,  Tituba  will  die  when  the 
Great  Spirit  wants  her,  but  she  will  not  be  Patience,  she  will 


THE    INDIAN.  45 

not  bow  down  to  the  white  man's  God.  No,  white  man!  she 
will  pray  to  the  Indian's  devil,  rather ! 

"  White  man,  my  words  are  spoken." 

It  is,  perhaps,  surprising  that  the  Puritan  should  have  allow 
ed  the  child  of  nature  to  conclude  her  powerful  harangue  un 
interrupted  ;  but,  though  he  was  a  stern  and  at  times  a  cruel 
man,  he  was  not  passionate,  or  quick  to  anger. 

His  errors,  great  or  small,  were  those,  not  of  impulse,  but 
of  deliberate  and  resolute  opinion, 

He  rarely  broke  in  upon  the  speech,  or  prevented  the  action 
of  any  one  ;  but,  the  speech  or  action  committed,  he  judged  it 
uncharitably,  and  punished  it  unmercifully. 

Moreover,  in  the  present  instance,  he  was  surprised  ;  first, 
that  his  daughter,  the,  .maek^  gentle,  humble-spirited  Ruth, 
should  have  presumed  to  think  at  all,  and  more,  to  think  inde 
pendently,  and  differently  from  himself;  and  lastly,  that  the 
Indian,  the  heathen,  the  slave,  the  poor,  soulless,  helpless, 
broken-hearted  outcast,  who,  for  the  most  part,  scarcely  could 
find  words  to  express  her  submission,  should  break  out  into 
such  a  torrent  of  strong,  fiery,  and  well-chosen  language. 

Balaam  stood  not  more  utterly  aghast,  for  a  moment,  when 
his  ass  turned  and  rebuked  him  with  a  human  utterance. 

Not  long,  however,  did  the  Puritan's  astonishment  endure  ; 
he  arose  to  his  feet  with  his  brow  black  as  night. 

"  The  masters  have  eaten  sour  grapes,"  he  said,  "  and  the 
teeth  of  the  slaves  are  set  on  edge  !  The  Lord  is  angry  with 
his  people !  Lo !  we  will  seek  the  Lord  in  prayer.  Per 
chance,  he  will  vouchsafe  to  point  us  out  a  way  to  escape  his 
wrath  —  peradventure,  he  will  bear  it  in  upon  our  spirits,  with 
what  chastisement  we  shall  chastise  this  daughter  of  perdition. 
And  thou,"  be  added,  turning  with  an  unchanged  brow  to  the 
Indian  girl,  "  and  thou,  begone  to  the  workshed,  until  I  come 
to  conjure  this  rebellious  and  accursed  spirit  out  of  thee." 


46  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

But  she  moved  not  at  all  to  go,  nor  quailed  before  his  scowl 
ing  eye  ;  but  stood,  with  her  arms  folded  on  her  breast,  as  if 
defying  him. 

"  Will  the  white  man  flog  Tituba  ?"  she  said,  in  tones  of  the 
most  tranquil  resolution. 

"Ay!  peradventure.     If  so  the  Lord"  — 

But  ere  he  could  utter  another  word,  she  interrupted  him,  in 
a  shrill,  high-pitched  cry,  tremulous  with  passion  — 

"  Never  again  ! — never  again,  white  man,  shall  you  lay  lash 
on  Tituba !  Scourge  your  own  base  white  flesh  !  Lash  your 
own  children,  like  dogs,  and  yet  viler  brutes  !  Shed  your  own 
coward  English  blood  !  But  never  again  !  never,  never,  strike 
an  Indian,  and  a  woman  !" 

And,  with  the  last  word  of  her  rapid  and  broken  exclamation, 
she  bounded  upon  him,  her  eyes  flashing  fire,  like  the  panther 
of  her  own  native  wilderness  upon  her  prey.. 

A  Ions  two-edged  and  sharp-pointed  cook's  knife,  which 
she  had  snatched  unperceived  from  the  dresser,  gleamed  ia 
her  lifted  hand,  as  she  sprang  upon  her  tyrant. 

Down !  down  it  came,  flashing  in  the  sunbeams,  swift  as  the 
lightning's  thought  executing  fire  ! 

Aimed  full  and  surely  at  his  neck,  above  the  collar-bone, 
had  that  blow  fallen  undiverted,  Merciful  Whalley  had  indeed, 
as  she  said,  never  struck  blow  again,  nor  moved  hand  or  foot, 
in  this  world. 

And  so  completely  was  he  taken  by  surprise,  that  he  made 
no  effort  to  avoid  or  parry  it. 

His  miserable  wife  sank  down  into  her  chair,  clasping  her 
hands  over  her  eyes,  that  she  might  not  at  least  see  the  death 
blow. 

The  old  man  had  withdrawn  from  the  table,  during  the  loud 
discussion,  entirely  unconscious  of  all  that  was  passing ;  and 
coiled  up,  as  before,  in  the  chimney-corner,  was  watching  the 


THE    INDIAN.  47 

smoke,  as  it  rolled  up  the  chimney  in  thick  wreaths,  with  an 
eye  that  scarce  knew  what  it  noted. 

Gideon,  the  eldest  son,  bounded  forward,  but  too  late  ;  the 
other  boys  had  been  banished  the  room  almost  an  hour  before. 

But  Ruth,  brave  Ruth,  who  had  arisen  at  her  father's  com 
mand,  and  was  retreating  to  her  own  chamber,  emboldened  by 
the  peril  of  that  ruthless  parent,  leaped  in  between  them,  with 
a  loud  piercing  cry  — 

"  Tituba  !  Tituba  !  he  is  my  father  !" 

The  eyes  of  the  Indian  girl  glared  fearfully,  but  it  was  all 
too  late.  She  could  not  check  the  blow. 

It  fell ! 

But  the  cry,  and  the  attempt  Ruth  had  made  to  arrest  her 
arm,  diverted  the  aim ;  and  striking  on  the  clavicle,  the  point 
of  the  knife  was  turned  against  the  bone,  and  glanced  off,  in 
flicting  only  a  superficial  wound  in  the  muscles  of  the  shoulder. 

In  the  next  moment  Gideon  had  seized  and  disarmed  her ; 
for,  the  brief  passion  over,  she  subsided  instantly  into  the 
crest-fallen,  spirit-broken  drudge,  she  had  been  before  her  un 
premeditated  effort. 

The  Puritan  staggered  beneath  the  weight  of  the  blow,  so 
vigorously  was  it  dealt;  but  in  an  instant  he  rallied,  as  calm, 
as  inscrutable,  as  dark,  and  impassive,  as  his  wont. 

" '  The  Lord  is  the  strength  of  my  life,  of  whom  shall  I  be 
afraid  ?'  But  thou,  child  of  iniquity,  murderess,  devil-worship 
per,  surely  of  thee,  and  such  as  thee,  it  was  written,  *  Thou 
shall  not  suffer,  one  of  them  to  live  !'  no  ;  not  one  !"  cried  the 
Puritan. 

"  Father,  dear  father,  thou  art  wounded  ;  but,  the  Lord's 
name  be  praised,  for  ever  and  for  ever,  I  have  preserved 
thee !" 

"  Not  thou,  my  daughter,  but  the  Lord,  even  the  Lord  of 
Hosts !"  replied  the  enthusiast,  with  his  eye  glaring  wildly  ; 


48  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

for  he  was  under  the  excitement  of  that  fierce,  overmastering 
spirit,  which  he  believed  to  be  inspiration.  He  put  her  aside 
gently,  as  she  threw  herself  into  his  arms  — 

"  The  wound,"  he  said,  "  is  nothing  ;  thou,  Ruth,  shall  see 
to  it  anon,  when  I  have  taken  order  with  this  witch? 

He  turned  to  the  Indian  girl,  who  stood  now  motionless  as  a 
statue,  her  head  bowed,  her  arms  listlessly  hanging  by  her 
side,  expectant,  as  it  seemed,  and  careless  of  her  doom. 

"  Go  !"  he  said  — "  Go  !  I  have  spoken  !  Pray  to  your  God, 
if  you  believe  in  any  !  Go  !  I  follow  !" 

Without  a  word,  a  glance,  a  gesture,  in  that  calm  dignity  of 
submission,  so  characteristic  of  the  Indian  who  never  resists, 
when  resistance  is  evidently  unavailing,  she  passed  with  noise 
less  steps  out  of  the  kitchen. 

And  heedless  of  the  tears,  the  sobs,  the  supplications  of  his 
daughter,  who  had  so  lately  saved  his  life,  at  imminent  peril 
of  her  own,  he  strode  out  doggedly  behind  the  Indian. 

He  closed  the  door — locked  —  double-locked  it  after  him. 

There  was  a  long  pause — breathless,  frightful ! 

Then  came  a  thrilling,  quavering  scream  —  a  scream  that 
made  the  blood  curdle  in  the  veins  of  all  who  heard  it. 

And  then  —  silence. 


49 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE    VETERAN. 
"  Quse  fuerint  juvenili  incorpore  vires." 

SEVERAL  seconds  elapsed  after  that  frightful  cry  had  arisen 
and  subsided,  before  any  of  those  present  could  collect  their 
faculties  sufficiently  to  take  any  action. 

The  wife  of  Merciful,  a  delicate  and  tender-hearted  creature, 
never  from  her  youth  upward  endowed  with  much  energy  or 
spirit,  had  long  ago  been  so  utterly  subdued  and  crushed  by 
the  commanding  will  and  rigid  authority  of  her  husband,  that 
she  would  scarcely  have  ventured  a  remonstrance,  had  she 
seen  him  applying  the  brand  to  the  house  in  which  she  was 
dwelling. 

The  tears,  it  is  true,  flowed  in  streams  down  her  pale,  mea 
ger  cheeks,  and  trickled  through  her  thin  fingers,  and  her 
words  were  half  lost  amid  convulsive  sobs,  as  she  cried  — 

"  Oh  !  he  will  slay  her  !  he  will  slay  her  !  Merciful  God, 
spare  him  the  burthen  of  blood-guiltiness  !" 

But  she  did  riot  arise  from  her  chair,  or  make  any  effort  at 
interference. 

Gideon,  than  whom  a  hardier  or  braver  boy  never  spread 
canvass  to  the  wind,  so  far  as  natural  perils  were  concerned, 
was  so  unfortunately  impressed  by  his  father's  tyranny  —  for 
by  no  milder  name  can  the  domestic  despot's  iron  rule  be 
characterized  —  that  he  would  rather  have  faced  a  hunted  bear, 
naked-handed,  than  stood  between  that  parent  and  the  victim 
of  his  wrath. 

E  3 


50  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

It  seemed,  for  a  moment,  that  the  stern  Puritan  would  be 
permitted  to  work  his  vengeful  will  on  the  unhappy  girl, 
without  a  single  effort  in  her  favor. 

The  face  of  Ruth  was  as  white,  and  almost  as  cold,  as  statu 
ary  marble  ;  her  beautiful  eyes  were  fixed  and  dilated  so  un 
naturally,  that  a  circle  of  white  was  visible  around  each 
glaring  iris  ;  her  hands  were  clasped  in  an  agony  of  suspense  ; 
her  lips  apart ;  and  her  whole  frame  motionless  and  rigid. 

She  stood,  arrested  by  that  awful  sound  —  that  yet  more 
awful  silence  —  in  the  very  act  of  springing  forward.  A 
breathing,  living  statue,  petrified,  as  it  were,  in  the  very 
ecstacy  of  terror. 

Again  that  fearful  scream  rose  clear  and  piercing  ;  again, 
again,  filling  every  corner  and  cranny  of  the  house  with  its 
terrific  volume. 

And  through  it,  and  over  it,  were  heard  a  succession  of 
heavy,  sullen  sounds,  the  reverberation  of  the  accursed  thong 
plied  on  a  helpless  woman.  Then  was  the  spell  broken  in 
stantly  that  had  held  Ruth  Whalley  motionless. 

She  had  believed  that  all  was  over — that  the  fell  deed  of 
vengeance  was  completed  —  that  the  wild  scream  of  agony, 
which  had  so  frozen  up  her  heart's  blood,  proclaimed  that  mis 
erable  man  a  murderer. 

Tremendous  as  it  was,  the  second  scream  fell  on  her  ear 
like  tidings  of  joy  and  hope. 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  face,  her  fixed  eye  flashed  lightly. 
At  one  spring  she  reached  the  door,  beat  violently  with  her 
delicate  hands  on  the  hard  pannels,  and  cried  in  accents  that 
spoke,  as  clearly  as  her  words,  her  unstained  and  holy  pur 
pose. 

"  Hear  what  the  Lord  sayeth,  *  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder !'" 

But  her  weak  mother,  terrified  rather  by  the  wrath  of  her 
husband  than  by  the  sufferings  of  the  slave,  and  abject  in  the 


THE    VETERAN.  51 

selfishness  of  that  most  selfish  of  all  feelings,  personal  appre 
hension,  said, 

•"Peace,  oh!  peace,  Ruth  Whalley,  you  will  but  irritate 
him." 

"  Irritate  him  !"  exclaimed  the  noble  girl ;  "  Listen  !  do  you 
hear  that?  Irritate  him!  jGfideon,  brother,  if  you  have  one 
spark  in  your  soul  of  manhood  or  of  courage,  bring  yon  axe 
hither;  —  strike  one  blow,  and  save  your  father's  soul  from  the 
guilt  of  murder." 

But  the  boy  stirred  not ;  so  utterly  had  the  tyrannous  do 
mestic  sway,  and  the  heart-chilling  puritanic  rule  quelled  and 
subdued  the  nobler  portions  of  his  nature. 

Still  the  wild  shrieks  pealed  heavenward  imploring ;  still 
the  atrocious  scourge  clanged  in  the  hands  of  the  tormentor. 

But  now  at  every  blow  the  long-drawn  screams  were  feebler, 
hoarser,  fuller  of  agony  than  of  fear  or  indignation.  They 
sunk  gradually  into  low,  shivering  moans. 

"  Great  God  !"  cried  Ruth,  "  will  you  hear  these  things,  and 
stand  cowardly  inactive  ?  Give  me  the  axe  !" 

And,  as  she  spoke,  she  seized  the  ponderous  implement, 
which  at  another  time  she  scarcely  could  have  lifted,  and, 
moved  by  the  tremendous  excitement,  wielded  it  like  a  feather. 

One  heavy  blow  fell  on  the  lock,  and  half  drove  it  from  its 
fastenings,  and  the  stout,  oaken  panels  groaned  and  quivered. 

Again  she  was  upheaving  it ;  and  the  next  moment  would 
have  beheld  the  door  battered  from  its  hinges,  when  from  the 
farther  end  of  the  room  a  voice  was  heard,  that  arrested  her 
on  the  instant. 

That  which  it  has  occupied  pages  to  relate,  had  occurred 
almost  in  as  many  seconds.  A  minute  certainly  had  not 
elapsed  between  the  utterance  of  Tituba's  first  cry  of  anguish, 
and  Ruth's  assault  upon  the  door. 

And  during  that  minute,  which  seemed  almost  a  lifetime  to 


52  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

the  actors,  every  one  had  been  occupied  so  completely  by  the 
terrors  of  the  scene,  that  not  a  thought,  not  an  eye  was  directed 
to  the  old  man,  who,  had  he  entered  their  minds  at  all,  they  would 
have  supposed  to  be  dozing,  as  usual,  unmoved  and  abstracted 
in  his  chimney-corner. 

Far  from  it.  When  the  first  cry  fell  upon  his  ear,  whether 
it  acted  as  the  key  to  some  treasured  hoard  of  memories, 
which  it  unlocked  and  poured  out  upon  his  darkened  spirit,  or 
merely  caused  his  nerves  to  thrill  with  a  keener  sensibility, 
his  aspect  changed  upon  the  moment. 

It  was  like  the  uplifting  of  a  heavy  curtain  from  a  fine  pic 
ture.  The  scattering  of  a  thick  mist  from  a  sunny  land 
scape. 

His  eye  which,  a  moment  before,  had  no  "  speculation  in't,n 
was  now  filled  with  a  strange,  deep  meaning.  His  features, 
which  had  been  blank  and  rayless,  as  those  of  an  idiot,  betray 
ing  no  play  of  the  intellect,  no  working  of  the  godlike  mind, 
were  in  an  instant  preternaturally  sharpened  —  alive  and  quick 
with  a  keen,  eager,  vigorous  expression. 

Yet  was  neither  the  light  and  meaning  of  the  eye  that  of 
calm,  evenly-balanced  reason,  nor  the  sharp  expression  of  the 
features  such  a  one  as  is  often  seen,  where  the  intellect  is 
clear,  and  its  operation  regular  and  healthful. 

Still,  it  was  not  the  wild  glare  of  insanity  that  flashed  from 
the  speaking  eye. 

It  was  not  the  unnatural  shrewdness  of  the  crafty  lunatic 
that  informed  those  high  features. 

He  arose  to  his  feet  instantly,  drew  his  hand  once  across  his 
brow  with  an  air  of  uncertainty,  perhaps  of  weakness.  Then,  as 
the  second  shriek  smote  his  ear,  he  looked  abroad  keenly  with 
an  inquisitive  and  eager  gaze,  which  yet  seemed  to  be  at  a  loss, 
and  hardly  to  recognise  the  objects  around  him. 

On  one  thing,  however,  it  fell  with  a  quick  glance  of  recog 


THE    VETERAN.  53 

nition  —  the  long,  steel-hilted  tuck,  which  hung  in  its  steel 
scabbard,  above  the  mantelpiece. 

He  grasped  it  without  a  moment's  hesitation ;  unsheathed  it 
with  a  steady  hand,  gazed  on  its  clear  and  polished  blade  with 
an  air  of  exultation,  tried  its  point  and  edge  with  his  finger, 
proved  the  elastic  temper  of  the  steel  by  bending  it  against 
the  floor  and  suffering  it  to  spring  back  to  its  length,  and  then 
fitting  its  chain  about  his  wrist,  strode  forward  with  a  firm  step 
and  an  erect  and  steady  bearing,  as  if  to  confront  a  foeman ! 

"  What,  ho  !"  he  cried  aloud,  in  tones  trumpet-like  and  spir 
it-stirring —  tones  that  displayed  nothing  of  the  tremulous  de 
bility  of  years.  "To  arms!  to  arms!  Ring  out  the  city- 
bells!  Strike  drums!  —  sound  trumpets!  The  bloody  Gir- 
gashites  are  upon  us.  The  savage  Rupert  and  his  rake-hell 
cavaliers  !  To  arms  !  to  arms  !  They  are  within  the  walls 
already !" 

Ruth  dropped  the  axe,  which  she  had  lifted  for  another  blow, 
at  those  strange  words.  Her  mother,  startled  by  this  new  ter 
ror,  rose  with  a  faint  cry  from  her  chair  and  staggered  forward 
to  meet  the  veteran  Roundhead  ;  as,  feebly  vigorous,  he  strode 
on  bearing  aloft  the  bright  rapier,  which  had  done  service  in 
its  day,  whether  for  good  or  evil,  toward  the  fated  door. 

Gideon  himself,  aroused  to  something  like  spirit,  by  this 
strange  resurrection  of  his  grandfather's  mind  from  the  dull 
and  deathlike  sleep  in  which  it  had  so  long  lain  dormant,  ap 
peared  to  nerve  himself  by  a  struggle  for  action. 

But  nothing  did  the  old  man  heed  them.  He  shook  back 
the  long,  thin,  silvery  locks  from  his  brow,  and  with  a  flushed, 
hectic  cheek,  and  fire  in  his  eye,  rushed  forward,  his  whole 
mind  evidently  full  of  some  painful  and  vivid  recollections. 

"  Are  ye  men  ?"  he  cried  aloud  once  again.  "  Are  ye  men, 
that  ye"  suffer  them  to  deal  thus  with  your  wives,  your  chil 
dren  ?  Ho !  Rallv !  rally  !  Hear  ye  not  how  the  women 
E* 


54  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

shriek,  and  will  ye  not  make  in  ?  Lo  !  where  yon  love-locked 
cavalier  hales  the  fair  maiden  in  his  licentious  arms !  Lo ! 
where  yon  fierce  Alsatian  tosses  the  infant  on  his  pike!  — 
Make  in,  I  say,  make  in  !  Strike  for  your  children's  safety  — 
strike  for  the  honor  of  your  women!  Tarry  not,  but  make 
in!" 

As  he  spoke,  he  attained  the  door,  which  Ruth  had  already 
half-beaten  from  its  hinges  ;  but,  ere  this,  the  long  shrieks  had 
subsided  into  those  deep  and  shuddering  moans,  which  were 
if  possible  more  awful  and  appalling.  His  hand  was  on  the 
latch,  and  he  had  shaken  it  once  stoutly,  when  roused  again 
to  ecstacy  by  some  more  cruel  stripe  the  miserable  girl  set  up 
another  cry,  more  terrible  than  any  she  had  uttered. 

"  God  of  my  fathers  !"  shouted  the  old  man,  turning  ashy 
pale,  the  transitory  flush  passing  from  his  wan  cheek  like  the 
last  sunset  hue.  "  God  of  my  fathers  !  it  is  she  !  Ho  ! 
Rachel,  Rachel !  wife  of  my  soul,  I  come  !  I !  I  !  —  it  is  not, 
it  can  not,  shall  not  be  — it  is  not,  too  late  !"  . 

And,  with  the  words,  raising  his  foot  with  all  the  energetic 
strength  of  young  and  robust  manhood,  he  put  his  whole  force 
into  one  crashing  blow,  and  split  the  heavy  door  asunder. 

The  room  was  already  growing  very  dark,  for  the  lustre  of 
day  had  died  out  from  the  western  sky  ;  and  the  wood-fire 
upon  the  hearth  threw  wavering  and  uncertain  gleams  over  the 
strange  and  agitating  scene. 

At  the  loud  crash  of  the  broken  door,  the  cries  ceased,  and 
the  clang  of  the  scourge  ;  and  the  harsh,  stern  voice  of  the 
Puritan,  deepened  by  the  echoes  of  the  vaulted  cellar  and 
staircase,  into  a  sort  of  hollow  roar,  was  heard,  asking  angrily, 

"  Who  dares  intrude  upon  me  ?  Hence !  begone,  or  fear 
mine  heaviest  indignation!" 

"  Tush  !  tell  me  not  of  fear  !"  returned  the  old  man.  "  Come 
forth,  I  say,  if  you  be'est  prince,  or  peer,  or  base  and  merce- 


THE    VETERAN.  55 

nary  slabber;  come  forth,  I  say,  and  Uiou  shalt  meet  a  man !  • — 
A  man  \vliQjias  braved  thy  betters,  who  has  not  held  his  hand 
nor  refrained  from  the  shedding  of  high  blood  —  even  the  blood 
of  crowned  and  anointed  kings  !  Come  forth,  I  say,  leave  tor 
turing,  helpless  women,  and  meet  a  man,  indeed — meet  me, 
even  Edward  Whalley  !" 

"  My  father !"  exclaimed  the  Puritan,  in  a  voice  now  tinc 
tured  somewhat  by  superstitious  awe  ;  and  leaving  his  barbar 
ous  occupation,  he  hurried  up  the  steps  from  the  cellar,  to 
ascertain  what  was  passing. 

The  fire-light  was  rising  and  falling ;  now  flashing  out  for  a 
few  seconds  and  filling  the  whole  room  with  clear  lustre  ;  now 
fading  utterly  away,  and  leaving  the  place  steeped  in  glimmer 
ing  and  uncertain  twilight. 

But  just  as  Merciful  Whalley  reached  the  head  of  the  stair 
case,  pallid,  and  grim,  and  suffering  under  the  effects  of  that 
exhaustion,  whicji  not  unfrequently  succeeds  to  the  indulgence 
of  any  overmastering  passion,  one  of  the  brightest  of  those 
flickering  gleams  rose  from  the  hearth,  and  fell  directly  on  his 
haggard  face  and  features. 

There  was  a  gory  spot  upon  his  forehead  ;  his  hands  were 
dyed  with  the  same  odious  hue,  and  in  his  right  he  held  a 
knotted  cord,  whence  there  fell  gouts  of  blood  upon  the  clean 
washed  floor. 

As  the  figure  of  the  Puritan  became  visible  ascending,  the 
old  man  rushed  at  first  to  meet  him  with  his  sword  uplifted, 
almost,  in  act  to  strike. 

But  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  bloody  brow,  the  bloody  hands, 
the  bloody  cord  which  they  grasped,  old  recollection  seemed 
again  to  overpower  him. 

He  dropped  the  rapier,  clanging  upon  the  ground,  staggered 
two  or  three  paces  backward,  clasping  his  white,  emaciated 
hands  over  his  eyes,  and  uttering  with  a  doleful  cry  the  words: 


56  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

"Too  late!  too  late!  — 0  Rachel,  Rachel,  Rachel!"  He 
would  have  fallen  to  the  ground  but  that  Ruth  and  her  brother 
caught  him  in  their  arms,  and  supported  him  to  a  chair  ;  where 
on  he  fell  back,  for  the  moment,  completely  exhausted  and  over 
powered  by  that  strong  excitement. 

"  What  is  all  this  ado  ?"  said  the  hard  father,  looking  around 
him  very  gloomily,  but  yet  more  angrily.  "  What  have  you 
done  with  him  ?" 

"  Nay !"  replied  Ruth,  meeting  his  eye,  as  she  had  never 
done  before,  calmly,  but  firmly,  inspired  by  womanly  resolu 
tion,  womanly  indignation.  "  Nay  !  rather,  what  have  you 
done,  father  ?" 

"  Punished  a  murderess  and  a  witch !"  he  answered  almost 
fiercely,  "  and  so  robbed  the  gallows  of  its  due.'' 

And  his  angry  eye  glared  upon  his  own  fair  child,  as  if  yet 
but  half  satiated  with  revenge,  he  would  have  wreaked  his 
fury  on  her  likewise. 

But  to  Ruth  Whalley  his  frown  had  lost  all  its  terrors ;  and 
she  gazed  on  him  with  a  sort  of  abhorrent  compassion. 

"  Speak,  father,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  full  of  deep  feeling. 
"  For  your  soul's  sake,  I  conjure  you,  speak !  Have  you,  an  elder, 
and  judge  of  your  people,  broken  God's  sixth  commandment?" 

"  See  thou  to  that,"  he  answered  her,  moodily,  going  in  great 
perturbation  toward  the  chair  of  his  father,  on  whom  it  would 
appear  that  all  his  thoughts  were  centred,  even  in  that  dread 
moment. 

"  By  the  Lord's  grace,  I  will,"  she  replied  steadily,  although 
she  turned  deathly  pale,  for  she  supposed  from  his  manner  that 
all  was  indeed  over.  "  And  may  he,  of  his  infinite  mercy, 
grant,  that  you  be  not  called  to  answer  it,  beyond  all  hope,  all 
endurance  !'' 

And  lighting  a  lamp,  she  went  down  stairs,  horror-stricken, 
but  fearless,  alone  to  the  place  of  torture. 


THE    CHANGE. 


57 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE    CHANGE. 

"My  heart  is  in  the  coffin,  there,  with  Cresar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me." 

As  soon  as  Ruth  left  the  kitchen,  in  search  of  the  poor  vic 
tim  of  her  father's  anger,  Merciful  Whalley  occupied  himself 
actively  and  efficiently  about  the  old  man,  who  had  fainted, 
after  the  violent  agitation  of  his  mind. 

Directing  his  wife  to  apply  cloths  steeped  in  cold  water  to 
his  temples,  he  produced  himself,  from  a  cupboard  of  which 
he  kept  the  key,  a  flask  of  some  powerful  cordial,  which  evi 
dently  had  not  been  disturbed  for  many  a  year,  since  it  was 
mantled  over  with  thick  cobwebs. 

A  few  drops  of  this  applied  to  the  old  man's  lips  resuscitated 
him  almost  immediately.  He  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  opened  his 
eyes,  and  again  closed  them,  and  then,  after  a  sort  of  tremulous 
struggle,  sat  up  erect,  and  looked  around  him. 

But  his  mind  still  wandered,  nor  did  he  seem  to  recognise 
any  of  those  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  Yet  it  was  riot  the 
apathetic  dullness  of  his  usual  mood  that  was  now  apparent  in 
his  manner,  but  an  uncertain  wavering,  as  it  were,  of  his  mind 
between  the  past  and  present. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  exclaimed.  "Where  is  Rachel?  —  I 
thought  I  heard  her  voice  but  now  ;  and  yet,"  he  continued, 
gazing  around  him  with  a  bewildered  eye,  "and  yet  this  looks 
not  like  the  townhall  of  Bristol  —  nor  hear  I  any  longer  the 

3* 


58 


THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 


cries  of  our  women  in  extremity,  the  shouts  and  the  trumpets 
of  the  terrible  malignants  !" 

"  Peace,  father  !  peace  !"  said  Merciful,  in  tones  as  gentle 
as  he  could  shape  his  mouth  to  utter  —  "This  is  not  Bristol; 
nor  are  we  any  more  at  all  in  England.  The  days  of  the  war 
are  long  since  ended ;  the  son  of  the  *  man  of  blood'  sits  once 
more  eminent  upon  the  throne,  from  which  his  father  fell ;  and 
we  are  here,  leagues  aloof,  in  New  England,  whither  our  peo 
ple  came  to  seek  that  liberty  of  conscience  they  might  not 
have  at  home." 

"  Wherefore  tellest  thou  this  me,  son  Merciful  1"  said  the 
old  man  recovering  his  memory  at  once,  arid  not  relapsing  any 
more  into  the  mental  lethargy  which  had  so  long  possessed 
him.  "Dost  thou  believe  me  so.  old  already,  so  frail-witted, 
that  I  know  not  this  ?  Am  I  not  in  thy  house,  within  the  limits 
of  the  good  Bay  Province,  and  are  not  these  thy  wife,  and  thy 
children,  whom  I  see  around  me?  But — but — "and  again 
his  eye  assumed  a  troubled  aspect,  "  I  see  not — where  is  my 
wife  —  where  is  my  Rachel !  Ah  !  I  remember,  I  remember  !" 
and,  as  the  full  illumination  of  memory  and  reason  returned  to 
his  shaken  intellect,  he  bowed  his  head  between  his  knees, 
and  wept  as  bitterly  as  if  long  years  had  not  elapsed  since  she 
whom  he  deplored  fell  in  her  innocence  and  youthful  love  a 
sacrifice  to  the  accursed  fiend  of  civil  discord.  .  "  Alas  !"  he 
repeated,  as  he  raised  his  head,  after  a  long  and  silent  pause, 
"  I  remember.  But  what  were  those  cries,  son  Merciful  — 
those  cries  which  aroused  me  from  my  meditations  ?  Surely 
they  were  not  fancy — they  were  not  the  mere  coinage  of  dis 
tempered  memory.  No,  no !  I  did  hear  a  woman's  pitiful 
scream,  and  that  it  was  which  awakened  me.  How  long — 
how  long  have  I  been  a  dreamer  in  the  life-long  day  ?" 

And  he  shook  his  head  not  doubtfully  any  longer,  but  in  a 
sort  of  sorrowful  compassion  at  his  own  frailty.  It  was  strange, 


THE    CHANGE.  59 

but  it  seemed  that  the  shock,  which  those  screams  of  Tituba 
had  given  to  his  nervous  system,  had  aroused  and  renewed  his 
intellect  altogether. 

He  spoke  calmly,  pertinently ;  the  fickle  and  unstable  fire 
had  died  from  his  eye,  the  hectic  flush  had  faded  from  his 
cheek.  There  was  no  symptom  now  of  undue  excitement 
in  his  air  or  manner,  no  sign  of  weakness  in  his  firm  and 
serene  countenance,  in  his  erect,  unbending  posture. 

Merciful  Whalley  paused,  ere  he  replied.  Almost  he  hoped 
that  his  father's  mind  would  again  wander,  so  he  might  be 
spared  the  disgrace  of  confessing  what  he  had  done  —  fur  now 
that  the  deed  was  over  —  that  the  stern  heat  of  cruelty,  which 
prompted  it,  had  passed  in  some  sort  away — he  felt  that  his 
conduct  had  indeed  been  both  sinful  and  disgraceful. 

Yet  it  was  not  shame  that  he  felt,  but  bitter,  burning  morti 
fication  ;  it  was  not  sorrow  or  repentance,  much  less  compas 
sion  for  his  victim,  but  a  hatred  toward  her  ten  times  more 
deeply  seated  than  before,  for  that  she  was  the  involuntary  and 
unhappy  cause  of  his  degradation. 

But  the  mind  of  the  old  regicide  did  not  again  wander  ;  and, 
seeing  that  his  son  replied  not,  he  inquired  again,  and  this 
time  not  without  some  sterness  in  his  manner. 

"  What  were  those  woman's  screams,  son  Merciful  ?" 

"  Nothing  —  a  trifle  —  a  vile  Indian  squaw,  a  slave,  whom  I 
had  need  to  correct,"  answered  the  Puritan,  greatly  embarrassed. 
"  Let  us  not  speak  of  her  at  present.  I  have  tidings  to  give  you 
of  far  deeper  importance — " 

"  Nothing  !  —  a  trifle  !"  interrupted  the  old  man,  repeating  his 
words  indignantly  ;  "  the  outcries  of  a  woman  nothing  !  the 
sufferings  of  a  woman  a  trifle  !  Go  to,  go  to,  sir  !  I  know 
nothing  of  deeper  importance!  I  must  hear  more  of  this  — 
an  Indian  and  a  slave  !  Who  art  thou,  and  what  God  made 
thee,  that  thou  shouldst  hold  thy  fellow-worms,  the  work  of 


60  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

that  same  God's  right  hand,  in  bondage  ?  Was  that  the  lash 
I  heard?  Art  thou,  as  the  Egyptian.,*  taskmaster,  a  perse 
cutor  ?" 

"  A  bond-servant,  I  should  have  said,"  replied  his  son,  "  and 
not  a  slave.  Assigned  to  me  was  Patience  by  the  selectmen 
of  the  town,  for  her  advancement  in  the  culture  of  the  Chris 
tians,  her  indoctrination  in  the  pure  faith  of  the — " 

"And  thou  hast  beaten  her  —  beaten  her  like  a  dog?" 
asked  the  old  man  reproachfully. 

"  She  would  have  slain  me  with  the  knife  on  mine  own 
hearth,"  returned  the  son.  "  See  ;  the  blood  is  yet  wet  on  my 
doublet,  where  she  smote  !" 

"  There  is  blood  likewise  on  thy  brow  !  on  thy  cruel  hands  ! 
—  on  that  twisted  and  knotted  cord  !  Is  that  thy  blood,  Merci 
ful  ?" 

Convicted,  writhing  with  smothered  rage,  the  dusk  man  was 
silent. 

"  And  thou — thou  a  Whalley,  and  my  son,  hast  scourged  the 
image  of  thy  Maker,  a  weak  miserable,  wailing  woman,  until 
the  blood  rushed  out  of  her  tortured  limbs  to  bear  witness  of 
thy  brutal  fury  !" 

Still  he  was  silent ;  but  that  speechless  mood  was  more  elo 
quent  than  all  the  words  an  orator  could  utter. 

"Ichabod!  Ichabod!''  cried  the  old  man,  in  accents  of  the 
deepest,  the  most  agonizing  grief,  "  now,  indeed,  hath  the 
glory  of  my  house  departed  !  Son  Merciful,  be  no  more  son 
of  mine.  Begone  !  riay,  answer  me  nothing  now  !  Go  to  thy 
chamber;  go,  commune  with  the  Lord  in  prayer;  go,  com 
mune  with  thine  own  soul  in  silence !  It  may  be,  when  thou 
hast  repented  thee  of  this  dread  crime,  that  I  will  hear  thee 
farther." 

"  Hear  me,  at  least,  to-night,"  replied  the  hard  and  ruthless 
man,  bowing  at  the  same  time  to  his  father's  will,  with  the 


THE    CHANGE.  61 

same  absolute  obedience  which  he  exacted  of  his  children  — 
"or  your  own  life  will  be  the  sacrifice." 

"  When  have  I  valued  my  own  life  at  all,"  answered  the 
regicide,  "save  as  a  trust  which  Thou,"  he  added,  turning  his 
eyes  reverently  upward,  "  hast  committed  to  my  keeping,  and 
which  it  behooves  me,  therefore,  not  to  resign,  save  at  thy  bid 
ding  ?  Go,  my  son  ;  seek  the  Lord  in  prayer  ;  sin  no  more  in 
this  wise  ;  and  it  may  be,  peradventure,  he  shall  forgive  thy 
sin  !  Go  !  I  will  speak  with  thee  anon." 

Crestfallen  and  humiliated,  the  cold,  iron-hearted  Puritan 
departed,  gnawing  his  heart  with  deep  and  secret  spite. 

In  a  sweet  mood  for  prayer,  verily.  When  his  whole  soul 
was  hardened  and  rebellious,  and  in  arms  against  all  merciful 
and  tender  feelings.  When  so  far  was  he  from  repenting  of 
his  cruelty  to  the  hapless  Indian,  that  the  sentiment  which  was 
uppermost  in  his  mind  was  rage  and  resentment  against  her. 
When  he  was  almost  pondering,  even  as  he  knelt  down  him 
self  to  ask  for  mercy,  how  he  could  best  avenge  himself  on 
that  innocent  and  hapless  being. 

For  a  moment  or  two  after  he  quitted  the  room,  the  veteran 
walked  to  and  fro  buried  in  deep  thought,  and  at  times  heav 
ing  long  and  painful  sighs. 

No  member  of  the  family  had  seen  him  for  years  display 
so  much  intelligence  or  activity. 

Arid  in  the  midst  of  their  wonder  they  expected  every  mo 
ment  to  see  him  relapse  into  his  accustomed  stupor. 

But  he  did  not  relapse.  On  the  contrary,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
exertion  of  his  faculties  called  forth  fresh  powers  ;  for  he 
paused  suddenly  in  his  walk,  and  said,  addressing  himself  to 
the  pale  and  agitated  wife  of  Merciful  — 

"  My  daughter,  this  is  very  terrible,  very  disgraceful.  Thou 
shouldst  have  hindered  this  !" 

She  hinder  it  ?     As  well  might  a  weak  mortal  undertake  to 
I* 


62  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

control  Heaven's  thunder,  as  she  to  withstand  her  husband's 
energetic  and  domineering  will. 

It  may  be,  that  after  he  had  spoken,  something  to  this  effect 
crossed  his  mind,  for  he  looked  at  her  mildly,  and  a  smile, 
half-sorrowful,  half-pitiful,  fleeted  across  his  high  features ; 
and  he  spoke  again  without  waiting  her  reply  — 

"  Ay  !  ay !  thou  wouldst,  if  an  thou  couldst ;  I  will  avouch 
it.  But,  come  —  we  must  see  to  amend  the  evil  he  hath  done. 
Light  me  a  lamp,  boy.  Where  is  this  Indian  girl.  Heaven 
forefend,  he  hath  slain  her." 

"  No  !  no  !  It  is  not  so  bad  as  that,"  cried  Ruth,  who  came 
bounding  up  the  stairs,  and  who  seemed  less  surprised  than 
any  of  the  others  at  this  resuscitation  of  her  grandfather. 
"  Though  it  is  very  bad,  indeed,  and  terrible  !  She  had  faint 
ed  ;  but  she  is  better  now,  and  I  want  help  ;  to  carry  her  to 
her  bed  only  —  but  I  must  have  help." 

"  And  shall"  replied  the  veteran.  "  Gideon  shall  help  you, 
my  good  Ruth  ;  and  I  will  go  likewise.  I  had  of  yore  some 
skill  in  the  art  of  healing,  and,  it  may  be,  it  shall  be  yet  not 
all  unprofitable.  Bring  the  light,  boy,  and  the  flask  of  cor 
dial,"  and  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  bottle  which  Merci 
ful  had  left  upon  the  table. 

But  his  wife  fearful  yet,  and  more  apprehensive  of  her  hus 
band's  anger,  than  desirous  of  ministering  to  the  poor  house 
hold  drudge,  cried  anxiously  — 

"  Oh !  no,  no,  no !  Do  not  take  that ;  Merciful  prizes  it 
beyond  its  weight  in  gold.  He  never  will  forgive  me." 

"  And  if  he  valued  it  beyond  his  heart's  best  life-blood,  he 
should  do  well  to  lavish  it  now  freely,  if  so  he  may  repair  his 
cruelty  —  his  crime!" 

"  But  what  shall  shelter  me,"  cried  the  weak,  selfish  wo 
man,  "  from  his  anger  ?" 

"  And  what  shall  shelter  thee,  I  fain  would  ask,"  returned 


THE    CHANGE.  63 

the  independent,  scornfully,  "  from  HIS  wrath,  which  is  as  a 
consuming  fire,  who  brooks  not  that  his  creatures  should  be 
feared  and  obeyed,  to  the  neglect  of  his  most  holy  law  ?  Wo 
man,  go  to !  your  weakness  is  akin  to  thine  husband's  wicked 
ness,  and  scarce,  if  anything,  less  sinful.  Wouldst  thou,  for 
fear  of  a  passing  gust  of  passion,  suffer  a  mortal  life,  perhaps 
an  immortal  soul,  to  perish  ;  and  suffer,  too,  the  guilt  of  that 
perdition  to  rest  upon  your  husband  ?  For  shame  !  for  shame  ! 
Is  this  charity?  —  But  mark  me,  I  will  shield  yon  from  his 
anger,  should  it  be  roused  against  you  ;  which,  I  believe  and 
trust  it  will  not. !"  and,  without  any  farther  words,  followed  by 
the  boy  bearing  the  light,  and  conducted  by  the  sweet  maiden, 
the  old  man  descended  the  stairs  to  the  scene  of  that  cruel 
punishment. 

That  scene  was  too  terrible,  too  disgusting,  for  description  ; 
nor  will  I  harrow  up  the  feelings  of  my  readers,  as  I  perchance 
might  do,  by  a  picture  so  horrible  and  odious. 

It  is  enough  that  the  wretched  girl  had  fainted  under  the 
merciless  castigation  of  her  enraged  master  ;  and,  though  she 
had  already  recovered  some  degree  of  animation  under  the 
tender  cares  of  Ruth,  the  shock  which  her  nervous  system  had 
sustained  was  still  clearly  perceptible  in  the  strong  convulsive 
rigors  which  shook  her  dusky  limbs. 

The  sovereign  cordial  was  given  to  her  freely  by  the  old 
man,  whose  sternness  seemed  all  to  have  melted  away  into  the 
genuine  charity  of  the  good  Samaritan  ;  and  this,  with  other 
remedies,  speedily  brought  her  so  far  to  herself,  that  it  was  no 
longer  difficult  to  remove  her  to  the  small  closet  in  which  she 
slept. 

Her  wild  eyes  glared  with  a  savage  expression  of  astonish 
ment,  almost  of  awe,  as  she  beheld  that  strange  old  man,  whom 
she  had  ever  regarded  with  that  superstitious  veneration  which 
the  North  American  tribes  extend  ever  to  those  whose  intel- 


64  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

lects  are  alienated — busied  so  actively,  so  practically,  and  so 
skilfully,  about  her  treatment. 

It  was  plain  to  see  that  she  marvelled  mightily ;  but  with 
the  usual  self-control  of  an  Indian,  she  restrained  her  wonder, 
as  she  did  also  her  fierce  indignation,  at  the  brutality  of  which 
she  had  been  the  victim. 

She  spoke  no  word,  even  in  reply  to  her  favorite  Ruth  ;  and, 
when  she  had  been  made  as  comfortable  as  circumstances 
would  admit,  they  left  her  to  her  own  swelling  and  passionate 
thoughts. 

When  the  old  man  returned  to  the  kitchen,  he  resumed  his 
place  in  the  chimney-corner  silently,  and  sat  for  a  few  moments 
buried  in  deep  thought. 

Then  looking  up,  he  said  abruptly  to  the  others,  "  Leave  me 
awhile.  I  would  speak  with  Ruth  alone.  You,  woman,  go  to 
your  hushand,  and  essay  if  you  may  not  soften  his  hard  mood  ; 
you,  boy,  to  bed  —  I  will  talk  with  you  to-morrow." 

"  Now,  Ruth,"  he  said,  when  the  others  had  left  the  room, 
"  tell  me  how  this  befell ;  and  if  there  be  many  scenes  like 
unto  this,  in  this  household,  the  Lord  forgive  me,  for  I  too 
have  much  to  answer,  in  that  I  have  so  given  up  my  soul  to 
memories  of  the  past  —  so  suffered  my  heart  to  dwell  with  her 
who  hath  no  more  any  home  on  earth,  save  in  this  bosom  —  that 
all  my  sense  hath  been  benumbed  and  paralyzed  these  many 
days  —  these  many  years,  I  should  say  rather — for  I  have 
taken  little  note  of  time.  Tell  me,  my  gentle  daughter,  all, 
and  fear  nothing." 

And  she  did  tell  him  all,  and  fearlessly  and  freely  ;  and  they 
conversed  long  together,  nor  had  Ruth  ever  cause  to  repent 
that  she  dealt  honestly  and  openly  with  the  old  regicide. 

The  night  was  far  spent  when  they  parted  ;  and  when  they 
did  so,  as  she  arose  from  her  seat,  the  old  man  opened  his 
arms  slowly,  and  clasped  her  to  his  aged  heart,  and  kissed  her 


THE    PERIL.  65 

forehead  tenderly ;  a  bright  tear  twinkled  for  a  moment  in  his 
eyes,  long  unused  to  soft  emotions  ;  and  he  whispered,  in 
husky  and  interrupted  accents  — 

"  Bless  thee  !  bless  thee,  my  daughter.  Thou  art  a  sweet, 
and  gentle  woman,  and  affectionate  and  artless.  Be  stead 
fast  in  the  right ;  and  it  may  well  be  that  thy  true  and  loving 
virtues  shall  reconcile  this  sinful  house  to  its  offended  Lord 
and  Savior. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE    PERIL. 
"  The  sheriff,  with  a  monstrous  watch,  is  at  the  door." 

THE  night  was  far  advanced  ere /the  old  man,  who  had  for 
hours  been  debating  with  his  son  hard  points  of  knotty  doctrine, 
and  gravely  reprobating  the  course  and  conduct  of  his  life, 
which  had,  it  would  seem,  been  suddenly  revealed  to  him  by 
the  events  of  that  night,  would  suffer  Merciful  to  speak  on  any 
other  topic. 

At  last,  however,  when  it  was  nearly  midnight  —  after  the 
younger  Puritan  had  made  confession  of  his  error  ;  and,  after 
they  had  prayed  together  long  and  solemnly,  the  regicide  with 
genuine  and  enthusiastic  fervor,  his  son  with  a  strange  mix 
ture  of  sincerity  and  hypocritic  canting  —  the  father  expressed 
his  willingness  to  hear  the  tidings,  to  which  Merciful  had  so 
many  times,  and  so  anxiously,  alluded. 

"  You  should  have  known  them  sooner,"  he  said  eagerly,  as 
soon  as  he  received  license  to  speak,  "  for  truly  they  are  pres 
sing  ;  and  there  is  no  time  to  spare.  My  father,  loath  as  I  am 
F* 


66  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

to  say  it,  even  this  very  night  thou  must  quit  this  dwelling, 
which  can  no  longer  shield  thee  from  the  persecutor." 

The  old  man  looked  him  steadfastly  in  the  face,  with  a 
piercing  and  penetrating  glance  ;  as  if  he  would  have  read,  in 
his  soul,  whether  this  were  not  a  mere  excuse  for  removing 
him  from  the  superintendence  of  family  matters,  now  that  he 
had  discovered  the  tyrannous  conduct  of  the  master. 

It  would  seem,  however,  that  he  was  convinced  of  his  son's 
sincerity,  at  least  in  the  present  instance,  for  without  removing 
his  eagle  eye  from  his  face,  he  asked  — 

"  Wherefore,  and  whither,  must  I  go  ?" 

"  The  wherefore  can  not  be  answered  in  a  word,"  replied 
his  son. 

"  Answer  it,  then,  in  ten,  or  in  fifty." 

"  I  need  not  tell  you,"  he  replied,  "  that  the  son  of  the  '  Man 
of  Blood'  sits  once  more  on  the  throne  of  England,  nor  that  all 
parties  humble  themselves  in  the  dust  at  the  tyrant's  feet." 

"  Alas,  for  the  good  cause  !     I  know  it." 

"  But  this  you  know  not  yet ;  that,  after  you  escaped  from 
England  hither,  and  so  shunned  the  fate  of  Hugh  Peters,  Cooke, 
and  the  rest,  noble  victims  who  perished  on  the  scaffold,  so 
bitter  has  waxed  the  vengeance  of  the  malignant  king,  that  not 
death  itself  has  availed  to  shelter  our  friends  from  his  brute  fury. 
The  corpses  of  Cromwell,  Bradshaw,  Ireton,  have  been  torn 
from  their  violated  tombs,  dragged  through  the  streets  of  Lon 
don  upon  hurdles,  yea,  gibbctted  at  Tyburn,  and  beheaded  amid 
the  ribald  exultation  of  Alsatian  bravoes,  pages,  and  pandars 
of  Whitehall !" 

"  God  of  my  fathers  !"  cried  the  old  man,  in  tones  that  spoke 
more  than  horror,  "  and  didst  thou  witness  these  things,  and 
was  thy  thunder  silent?  Verily,  verily,  thy  people  have 
sinned  deeply  in  thy  sight,  that  thou  hast  turned  thus  thy  face 
away  from  us  !" 


THE    PERIL.  67 

"  Sir  Harry  Vane,  moreover,  honest  and  true  Sir  Harry 
Vane,  hath  shed  his  blood  likewise  on  the  block  ;  and  his  soul 
lies  among  the  saints  and  martyrs,  who,  like  him,  died  rejoicing 
for  the  sake  of  their  conscience  and  their  God." 

"  Inscrutable  are  thy  ways,  O  thou  most  Highest !"  returned 
the  regicide.  "  Yet  are  thy  judgments  true  and  righteous  al 
together/' 

"  Now  hear  me,  father,  how  instantly  and  urgently  these 
things  touch  you.  I  have  feared  long,  and  with  me  many  of 
our  people,  since  we  have  got  this  new  and  furious  governor, 
this  painted  scarlet  kingsman,  this  persecutor  of  the  saints,  and 
scoffer  at  the  word  of  God,  even  this  petty  tyrant,  of  a  great 
tyrant's  making,  Sir  Edmund  Andross,  to  rule  over  us — we 
have  feared,  I  say,  long,  that  the  judges  of  the  man,  even  the 
late  man  Charles,  who  have  fled  hitherward,  as  David  fled 
from  Saul  into  the  wilderness  En-gedi,  would  not  be  suffered 
to  dwell  quietly  even  beyond  the  sea.  And  therefore  have  we 
kept  watch  narrowly.  A  while  ago,  it  was  made  kuown  to  us 
how  three,  who  had  escaped  to  Holland,  and  were  abiding,  as 
they  believed,  peaceful  and  secure  under  the  rule,  and  within 
the  limits  of  a  free,  independent  nation,  were  seized  there,  sur 
rendered  by  the  states,  and  have  since  died  on  the  gallows- 
tree  in  England.  Therefore,  we  had  our  spies  more  closely 
on  the  watch  than  before  ;  especially  when,  three  days  since, 
the  Rose  frigate  entered  the  port  from  England,  and  cast 
anchor  nigh  the  fortress.  Yesterday,  I  got  word  that  there 
was  peril  in  the  wind,  and  straight  I  set  forth  to  the  city. 
This  morning,  it  was  avouched  to  me  by  a  true  hand,  one  who 
is  near  the  governor  in  place,  but  his  heart  yet  is  with  us,  that 
warrants  have  come  over  in  the  Rose  for  your  apprehension, 
as  well  as  for  that  of  Goffe  and  Dixwell.  They  two  fled  in 
stantly  across  the  country  to  New  Haven.  For  thee,  there  is 
no  time  to  do  so,  seeing  that  now  the  passes  are  all  guarded ; 


68  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

and  with  to-morrow's  sun  the  governor  and  his  satellites  come 
hither  to  arrest  thee  !" 

"  My  race,  then,  is  run,"  said  the  old  man  calmly.  "  I  fan 
cied  that  when  so  long  a  time  had  passed,  I  should  have  been 
permitted  to  linger  out  my  days,  until  their  natural  ending. 
But  the  Lord  he  determineth  all  things,  and  all  things  for  the 
best.  Let  them  come,  Merciful,  let  them  come  with  their 
swords  and  staves  ;  they  shall  not  find  the  old  man  fearful,  or 
unready  ;  and  for  the  small  drop  of  thin  blood,  which  they 
shall  find  in  these  frail  veins,  verily  they  are  welcome  to  it." 

"  No  !  father,  no  !"  cried  his  son  eagerly,  and  in  truth  much 
affected  ;  "  this  must  not,  need  not,  be  ;  1  can  conceal  thee 
nigh  this  place,  where  thou  mayest  lie  hid  in  safety,  until  this 
tyranny  be  overpast." 

"  Verily,  if  thou  canst,  be  it  so.  Our  lives  are  not  our  own, 
to  do  with  them  as  we  list,  but  His  who  gave  them  to  us  for 
good  ends.  Where  is  it  thou  proposest  to  bestow  me  ?" 

"  We  must  steal  forth  like  thieves  by  night,"  replied  the  son, 
•'  not  suffering  one  of  these  to  suspect,  even,  whither  we  are 
going.  Should  that  dark-skinned  child  of  perdition  discover 
it,  she  would  betray  us  straightway." 

"  And  wherefore,  Merciful  ?"  asked  the  old  man,  severely. 
"  Wherefore  ?  She  has  eaten  of  thy  bread,  and  drunken  of 
thy  cup  ;  —  wherefore,  then,  shouldst.  thou  say  '  she  will  betray 
us"  straightway,'  but  that  thou  knowest  she  has  grievances  so 
bitter,  wrongs  so  intolerable,  that  she  were  justified  in  betray 
ing  her  tormentor?  See,  my  son,  see  how  our  own  sins  are 
turned  in  against  our  own  bosoms,  and  become  scourges  to 
afflict  us.  But  say  on." 

"  We  must  steal  forth,  I  say,  this  very  night.  Here  is  a 
cave,  or  cranny,  rather,  in  the  rocks  midway  between  this 
ledge,  whereon  the  house  standeth,  arid  the  summit  of  the 
cliffs.  Many  years  since  I  climbed  to  it  by  chance  seeking 


THE    PERIL.  69 

to  rob  a  fish-hawk's  eyry ;  and,  wherefore  I  know  not,  I  have 
told  no  man  of  its  whereabout,  nor  can  the  eyes  of  any  man 
discern  it  from  below.  The  head  of  one  of  our  tall  pine-trees, 
which  I  have  spared  therefore,  leans  over  and  conceals  its 
mouth.  It  is  by  the  tree  that  I  climbed  up  thither." 

"You  forget,  Merciful,"  replied  the  old  man  with  a  faint, 
sad  smile,  "  the  limbs  that  could  have  borne  me  once  to  the 
crags,  where  the  wild-goat  pastures  her  tameless  young  secure 
from  man's  intrusion,  are  now  bent,  and  weak,  and  well-nigh 
useless  ;  your  plan  is  naught,  my  son.  My  climbing  days  are 
ended.  And  if  the  Lord,  in  his  infinite  and  wondrous  wis 
dom,  has  given  back  to  me  this  night  the  mind  which  has  for 
years  been  sunk  in  feebleness  and  stupor,  he  has  not  given 
back,  nor  will  give  back  the  elastic  tread,  and  the  vigorous 
grasp  of  manhood." 

"  For  all  that  I  have  taken  thought,"  replied  the  other. 
"  Night  after  night,  since  I  foresaw  the  coming  of  this  peril, 
have  I  climbed  to  the  cave,  and  stored  it  with  whatever  I 
deemed  needful  for  your  safety  and  well-being.  Good  store 
of  carpeting  and  blankets  have  I  piled  there  already ;  and 
hoards  of  dried  fish,  and  salted  meats,  and  biscuit;  and  matches 
and  charcoal,  likewise,  have  I  placed  there  ;  and  in  the  cave 
itself  there  is  a  source  of  bright  and  never-failing  water.  I 
have  rigged,  too,  a  block  and  pulley  at  the  entrance,  with  a 
strong  rope,  by  means  of  which  I  can  raise  you  up  thither 
easily.  As  often,  as  I  can  do  so  safely,  I  will  visit  you. 
Meanwhile,  you  must  tarry  there,  with  as  much  patience  as 
you  can  exert.  Truly  it  will  be  tedious,  and  a  most  lamenta 
ble  sojourning ;  but  we  must  pray  that  the  Lord  in  his  good 
time  will  shorten  it,  and,  when  the  strictness  of  the  watch 
shall  have  overpast  a  little,  I  will  convey  you  hence  by  sea 
unto  New  Haven,  where  you  may  be  in  safety." 

"  We  will  go  !"  said  the  old  man,  firmly.     "  Give  me  my 


70  THE    FAIR    PURITAN-. 

cloak  and  hat  —  my  Bible  and  my  broadsword  —  defence  against 
the  foes  of  both  the  spiritual  and  the  carnal  world  '  We  will 
go!  I  am  ready." 

These  things  were  soon  collected,  and  Merciful's  hand  was 
on  the  latch  of  the  door  already,  when  he  paused  in  the  act 
of  opening  it,  turned  to  his  father,  and  said,  "  Tarry  yet  awhile. 
I  will  go  see,  lest  they  are  peradventure  waking." 

He  drew  off  his  fisherman's  boots  carefully,  and  stole  with 
a  silent  step,  and  a  heart  the  throbbings  of  which  appeared  to 
him  to  sound  audiby  from  door  to  door  of  his  house,  listening 
long  and  earnestly  to  hear  some  stir  or  breath  which  should 
indicate  whether  the  inmates  slept,  or  were  yet  waking,  after 
the  agitation  and  excitement  of  the  evening. 

He  did  not  listen  long,  ere  the  regular  and  heavy  aspirations, 
which  came  to  his  ear  from  every  door  but  one,  assured  him 
that  the  inmates  were  buried  in  the  deepest  and  most  quiet 
slumber. 

But  the  one  door,  of  all  the  number,  was  that  which  the 
most  disturbed  him. 

It  was  that  of  the  little  closet,  wherein  lay  Tituba.  There 
he  paused  long,  stilling  the  very  beatings  of  his  heart,  to  col 
lect  the  slightest  sound,  the  faintest  murmur,  which  might  be 
token  the  presence  of  any  living  creature. 

But  no  sound  or  murmur  rewarded  his  assiduous  watch  — 
no  breath,  no  whisper.  After  he  had  stood  there,  not  less 
than  half  an  hour,  he  was  compelled  to  retire,  unsatisfied  ;  cer 
tain  indeed  that  the  girl  was  within  the  cell,  for  how  should 
she  have  escaped  thence  unseen,  but  doubtful,  very  doubtful, 
whether  she  was  awake  or  sleeping. 

That  any  one  should  sleep  so  breathlessly,  so  silently,  ap 
peared  indeed  scarce  credible  ;  yet  it  was  hardly  possible  that 
awake,  any  one  should  retain  one  posture,  so  immoveably,  so 


THE    PERIL.  71 

pertinaciously,  that  nothing  should  occur  to  produce  even  the 
rustling  of  a  garment. 

Frustrated,  he  stole  back  at  length  to  his  father,  and  whis 
pered  to  him  the  result  of  his  observation. 

"  I  fear  she  may  again  have  swooned,"  said  the  old  man, 
forgetful  of  himself  and  his  own  peril ;  "  let  us  go  see  to  her." 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  replied  the  son.  "  It  may  be 
so,  indeed.  I  will  look  to  it  when  I  have  bestowed  you 
safely  !  Come,  father,  come  ;  there  is  no  time  to  tarry." 

And  snatching  up  his  own  gun  and  cloak,  and  carrying  his 
heavy  boots  in  his  hand,  he  stole  out  into  the  dark  and  moon 
less  midnight,  supporting  the  aged  man  with  solicitous  and 
tender  care. 

He  closed  the  door  after  they  were  without,  and  again  stood 
awhile  to  listen.  Not  a  breath,  not  a  stir  within.  It  was  clear 
that  his  purpose  was  effected  ;  that  their  exit  had  been  effect 
ed,  thus  far  at  least,  unheard  and  unsuspected. 


72  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 


CHAPTER    X. 

THE    CAVERN. 

"In  that  dark  chasm,  where  even  sound 
Seemed  dark  —  so  sullenly  around 
The  goblin  echoes  of  the  cave, 
Muttered  it  o'er  the  long  black  wave." 

THE  night  was  as  dark,  as  a  cloudless  night  can  be,  in 
which  there  are  millions  of  bright,  twinkling  stars,  and  steady 
burning  planets,  gemming  the  deep  expanse  of  azure. 

The  moon  had  not  yet  risen,  although  there  was  a  faint 
glimmer  on  the  verge  of  the  horizon  which  showed  where  she 
might  be  expected. 

The  overhanging  rocks,  the  black  shadow  of  the  giant  pines, 
the  dun  coloring  of  all  surrounding  objects,  even  to  the  ever 
lasting  sea,  which  uncurled  and  unruffled  showed  no  white 
crests  of  angry  foam,  but  rose  and  fell  in  long  monotonous 
cerulean  ridges,  contributed  to  render  everything  indistinct  to 
the  eye,  and  almost  invisible  at  ten  paces'  distance. 

The  silence,  in  so  far  at  least  as  human  sounds  are  concern 
ed,  was  absolute  ;  the  dull,  low  moaning  of  the  sea  as  it  rolled 
in  unbroken  to  the  shore  ;  the  whispering  sigh  of  the  west 
wind  among  the  vocal  branches  of  the  pines  ;  the  slight  rust 
ling  of  the  herbage  wet  with  the  heavy  dews  of  summer ;  and 
the  continuous  chirrip  of  the  cricket ;  such  were  the  only 
things  that  spoke  to  the  ear,  in  that  tranquil  midnight. 

"  All  is  safe,"  whispered  Merciful.  "  Tread  on  the  grass, 
father  ;  it  will  give  no  sound  under  your  footsteps.  Steadily  ; 
that  is  well.  We  shall  reach  the  spot  instantly." 


THE    CAVERN.  73 

And  indeed  many  seconds  had  not  elapsed,  before  they 
stood  under  the  canopy  of  two  of  those  huge  pines,  which 
grew  close  to  the  seaward  front  of  the  platform,  yet  so  near  to 
the  crags,  which  walled  it  on  all  sides,  that  their  evergreen 
boughs  covered  their  gray  and  rifted  faces  ;  while  their  heads 
towered  to  within  a  few  feet  of  their  summit. 

"  The  cavern's  mouth  is  directly  over  us,"  said  Merciful, 
"  some  eighty  feet  above  the  spot  whereon  we  are  now  stand 
ing.  It  is  so  mere  a  crevice  in  the  cliffs  face,  though  it  ex 
pands  within,  that,  even  were  the  pine  boughs  not  so  thick-set 
before  it,  no  human  eye  could  discover  what  it  is.  As  they 
now  shroud  it,  the  tower  of  London  is  not  a  safer  fortress. 
Tarry  you  here.  I  will  go  up,  and  lower  down  the  rope  by 
which  to  raise  you  ;  but  move  not,  I  beseech  you,  till  such 
time  as  I  return." 

Without  waiting  a  reply,  he  threw  down  his  cloak  upon  the 
grass,  and  placed  his  gun  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree.  Then 
grasping  the  bolt  firmly  with  his  arms  and  knees,  he  swarmed 
up  it  easily,  until  he  reached  the  fork  of  the  first  branch,  to 
which  he  swung  himself  with  a  vigorous  effort,  and  was  lost 
to  sight  utterly  in  the  dense  umbrage.  He  had  not  been  ab 
sent  many  seconds,  before  the  rustling  of  the  boughs,  as  they 
were  displaced  by  some  weight  descending  from  above,  an 
nounced  the  hook  and  rope  which  the  Puritan  sent  down  ;  and 
scarcely  had  it  touched  the  greensward  before  Merciful  fol 
lowed  it,  and  again  stood  beside  his  father. 

"  You  have  heard  nothing  ?"  he  whispered,  as  he  drew  near 
to  the  old  man  —  "nothing  that  should  excite  suspicion?" 

"  I  know  not,"  answered  his  father,  whose  senses,  purblind 
and  dim  before,  appeared  to  have  been  almost  supernaturally 
sharpened.  "  I  am  not  very  sure  that  I  did  not  hear  a  foot 
step  here,  close  beside  me.  But  I  can  see  nothing." 

"  A  lynx  could  see  nothing,  nor  an  owl  even,  in  this  black 


74  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

hole,"  returned  his  son.     "  The  ears  are  the  only  sure  guide  ; 
let  us  listen  !" 

And  they  did  listen,  as  men  will  do,  whose  lives  are  depen 
dent  on  the  clearness  of  their  senses.  But  if  there  had  been 
any  sound  before,  it  was  not  repeated  ;  and  Merciful  said,  after 
a  pause, 

"  There  is  nothing.  It  must  have  been  fancy  only.  Come, 
father,  let  me  make  you  ready ;  there  is  no  danger." 

"  And  if  there  be,"  said  the  old  man  firmly,  "  this  will  not 
be,  I  think,  the  first  time  I  have  faced  it." 

His  son  then  secured  about  his  waist,  over  his  cloak  which 
he  belted  close  about  his  limbs,  a  broad  belt  of  stout  buff  leather 
fastened  in  front  by  three  buckles,  and  having  at  the  back 
a  stout  iron  ring  into  which  he  inserted  the  hook,  which  he 
had  lowered  from  above  ;  two  loops  were  next  passed  over 
the  veteran's  arms,  and  made  fast  to  the  rope,  and  his  flapped 
hat  bound  down  with  a  kerchief  to  protect  his  face  against  the 
branches,  through  which  he  must  be  drawn  up.  Then,  hav 
ing  proved  the  strength  of  the  whole  apparatus  by  a  strong 
jerk,  Merciful  climbed  the  tree  a  second  time,  entered  the 
cavern's  mouth,  and  in  a  moment  swayed  away  upon  the  line, 
and  raised  the  old  man  without  material  difficulty  to  the  en 
trance  of  the  narrow  crevice. 

Another  moment,  and  he  was  safely  landed  upon  the  ledgo 
of  the  rock,  after  his  swift  ascent. 

Another  yet,  and  he  was  disentangled  from  the  ropes  and 
bandages,  which  were  coiled  away  instantly  in  readiness  for 
the  next  occasion. 

"  Give  me  your  hand  now,  father,"  said  the  Puritan :  "  the 
cave  grows  wider,  in  a  moment,  and  loftier ;  here  you  must 
stoop  your  head  low,  and  move  carefully  and  slowly." 

He  led  him  forward  a  few  yards  ;  then  paused.     "  We  are 


THE    CAVERN.  75 

arrived,"  he  said,  "  at  our  journey's  end.  Stand  still  an  instant, 
and  I  will  strike  a  light/' 

Then  after  groping  about  for  a  few  moments,  in  the  interior 
of  the  place,  with  which  he  was  so  well  acquainted,  that  he 
required  no  light  to  find  what  he  wanted,  he  produced  a  tin 
der-box  and  matches  ;  dropped  a  thick  curtain  of  carpeting, 
which  he  had  provided,  over  the  low  and  narrow  entrance  ; 
and  then,  secured  against  any  prying  eye,  lighted  a  large, 
thick  candle  made  from  the  wax  of  the  wild  bee. 

The  clear  lustre  filled  the  small  space  with  a  radiance, 
which  in  another  place  would  have  been  cheerful,  even  here 
it  went  far  to  dispel  the  gloom  of  that  melancholy  and  wild 
asylum. 

The  cavern  was  a  small,  nearly  circular  apartment,  about 
twelve  feet  in  diameter,  and  as  many  in  height ;  its  floor  was 
dry  white  sand,  and  its  walls  were  naturally  free  from  any 
kind  of  humidity  ;  which  was  the  more  remarkable,  that  in  the 
inmost  corner  there  was  a  small,  round  basin,  about  three  feet 
in  circumference,  full  to  the  brim  of  bright,  sparkling  water, 
with  a  fountain  of  silvery  bubbles  gushing  perpetually  up  from 
the  bottom,  and  showing  how  lively  and  strongly  aerated  must 
be  the  limpid  spring  which  fed  it. 

A  crevice  in  the  rock  just  below  the  brink  of  the  basin  car 
ried  off  the  superfluous  waters,  by  some  hidden  outlet;  and 
never  one  drop  overflowed  the  lip,  or  moistened  the  white 
sandy  carpet. 

As  much  as  could  be  done,  secretly  and  by  watches,  to  ren 
der  such  an  abode  comfortable,  Merciful  had  indeed  done  al 
ready,  foreseeing  the  contingency  which  had  arrived. 

A  good  bed  was  strewn  in  one  corner,  with  warm  coverlets, 
and  good  store  of  English  blankets,  purloined  from  his  wife's 
hoards  ;  and  around  this  the  rocky  walls  had  been  tapestried 


76  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

with  pieces  of  rag-carpet,  nailed  by  strong  pegs  of  wood  to  their 
rude  crevices. 

"  A  shelf  or  two,  secured  in  the  same  fashion,  displayed  a 
few  pewter  plates,  a  knife  or  two,  and  similar  utensils,  tin  cups 
and  bowls,  and  a  pile  of  coarse  linen  towels.  A  small  furnace, 
with  a  little  caldron  over  it,  two  or  three  kegs  containing  bis 
cuit  and  provisions,  a  very  rude  table  and  yet  ruder  stool  of  un- 

planed  timber,  with  two  or  three  books,  a  flask  of  brandy,  and 
a  brass  candlestick,  completed  the  furniture  of  this  strange 
habitation. 

"  And  now,  my  father,"  asked  Merciful,  tenderly,  as  soon  as 
he  had  seen  him  seated  on  the  stool,  "  think  you  that  you  can 
exist  awhile,  in  this  wretched  hole,  until  I  can  provide  for  your 
escape  ?" 

"  Wherefore  not,  Merciful  ?  Wherefore  not,  I  beseech  you  ?" 
replied  the  veteran  cheerfully.  "  I  shall  be  well  fed,  and  well 
warmed  ;  I  shall  be  safe  from  foes  without ;  and  I  have  here 
my  bible —  what  else  doth  man  require  ?" 

"  And  yet,"  answered  his  son  —  "  and  yet  I  fear  me  much — " 
and  he  hesitated,  fearful  of  offending. 

But  the  old  man  took  up  the  word  — 

"  Thou  fearest,"  he  said,  "  lest  my  mind  should  again  wan 
der.  Believe  it  not,  rny  son.  It  was  not  the  infirmity  so  much 
of  nature,  as  the  indulgence  of  a  morbid  melancholy  trick  of 
musing,  that  so  dethroned  my  reason.  It  hath  pleased  the 
Lord  to  arouse  me  from  this  stupor,  perchance  that  I  might  be 
the  better  fitted  to  endure  this  trial.  Now,  therefore,  I  en 
treat  thee,  think  no  more  of  that,  for  I  am  strong  in  mind,  as  I 
have  ever  been  since  my  boyhood,  and  stronger  in  my  body 
than  thou  thinkest.  Good  faith  !  he  should  be  a  bold  man  that 
would  essay  to  scale  this  citadel  in  my  despite,  with  this  good 
rapier  in  my  hand,  that  did  its  work  at  Naseby." 

"  To-morrow  night,"  added  Merciful,  "  I  will  bring  up  your 


THE    CAVERN.  77 

petronels  ;  I  have  them  in  the  large  oak  chest,  clean,  oiled, 
and  fit  for  service.  I  ran  some  bullets  for  them,  too,  the  other 
day,  when  I  was  casting  balls  for  my  own  boat-gun  ;  and  I 
will  fetch  up  hither  the  small  horn  of  powder.  And  if  there  be 
aught  else  that  you  require,  you  can  tell  me  when  I  return,  and 
I  will  have  it  here  as  soon  as  may  be.  Remember  only,  never 
to  strike  a  light,  save  with  the  carpet  lowered  before  the  en 
trance,  else  might  the  glare  betray  you.  Now,  I  will  light  the 
charcoal  in  the  furnace.  There  is  enough  draft  through  the 
door,  if  we  so  may  call  it,  and  yon  cleft  in  the  roof,  that  there 
shall  be  no  danger  from  its  fumes." 

It  was  not  long  before  this  was  accomplished,  and  the  warm, 
ruddy  glow,  which  arose  from  the  little  furnace,  rendered  the 
cavern's  aspect  almost  pleasant. 

This  done,  the  stern,  grim  Puritan  approached  his  father, 
and  it  was  strange  to  mark  the  play  of  tender  and  affectionate 
anxiety  on  those  dark,  iron  lineaments,  as  he  bowed  his  head 
humbly  before  the  regicide,  and  said  in  an  eager,  interrupted 
voice  — 

"  Bless  me,  my  father.     Bless  me  before  I  leave  you." 

Verily,  man  is  a  strange  mass  of  contradictions  —  none  so 
good  or  so  pure,  in  whom  there  is  not  much  of  evil  —  none  so  de 
graded  or  so  evil,  in  whom  there  is  not  much  of  good. 

"  Bless  thee,  my  son  —  my  own  son,  Merciful !  —  I  do  bless 
thee  !  For  thou  hast  been  to  me  a  good  son,  ever,  and  an 
affectionate  and  dutiful.  I  do  bless  thee  !  and  may  God  bless 
thee  likewise  !  —  the  God  of  Abraham,  of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob  ; 
may  he  bless  thee,  my  son,  with  an  exceeding  blessing  !  May 
he  cover  thy  head  in  the  day  of  peril,  and  prosper  thy  incom 
ings,  and  thy  outgoings  !  Yea,  may  he  give  thee,  in  this  life, 
happiness  and  peace  ;  and,  in  the  world  to  come,  life  everlast 
ing  '  But  be  thou  Merciful,  my  son,  as  in  name,  so  in  deed 

also.     Be  charitable,  and  long-suffering,  and   slow  to  anger, 
G* 


78  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

and  not  over  hot  as  thou  wert  this  last  evening ;  eaten  up  with 
distempered  zeal,  pitiless  and  cruel !  Do  so,  my  son,  and  God 
shall  bless  thee,  even  as  I  bless  thee,  and  thou  shalt  be  blessed, 
now  and  for  evermore.  Amen!  Amen!  Selah  !" 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  fell  on  his  son's  neck,  and  clasped  him 
to  his  withered  breast,  and  wept  warm  tears  of  affection  over 
him. 

And  Merciful  was  moved  also,  for  the  moment  —  moved  even 
to  tears  ;  and  it  may  be,  that,  for  the  first  time  then,  his  heart 
smote  him,  for  he  replied  in  the  beautiful  words  of  Holy 
Writ— 

"  I  have  sinned  against  Heaven,  and  before  thee,  and  am  no 
more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  son." 

And  it  is  probable  that  this  once  he  spoke  sincerely.  The 
old  man  answered  — 

"  Go,  then,  my  son,  and  sin  no  more." 

And  with  those  exquisite  and  touching  words  they  parted. 

Merciful  carefully  raised  a  little  portion  of  the  carpet  that 
concealed  the  entrance,  and  stole  out  so  warily  that  no  stray 
gleam  of  light  flashed  forth  into  the  darkness  to  betray  his 
treasured  secret. 

Then,  throwing  himself  with  a  bold  vault  into  the  centre  of 
the  dense  mass  of  evergreen  foliage  which  feathered  the  cliffs 
face,  he  gained,  by  a  slight  exertion,  the  trunk  of  the  huge 
tree  ;  and  lowered  himself  rapidly  along  it,  until  he  stood,  un- 
perceived,  as  he  trusted,  by  any  mortal  eye,  under  the  leafy 
canopy. 

After  standing  a  moment  or  two  there,  silently  listening, 
he  raised  his  cloak  from  the  ground  whereon  he  had  cast  it, 
and  felt  about  in  the  darkness  for  his  gun,  where  he  had  left  it 
propped  against  the  pine-tree. 

It  was  gone  !  — 

He  started  aghast,  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow — surely  it 


THE    CAVERN.  79 

was  here  he  had  left  it — he  could  not  be  mistaken.  He  felt 
for  it  again  and  again,  but  there  it  was  not ;  he  groped  along 
the  grass  under  the  tree,  in  case  it  might  have  fallen,  still  he 
found  it  not.  It  was  gone.  It  must  have  been  removed  ;  and 
by  whom  ? 

Madness  was  in  the  thought,  and  utter  ruin. 

He  struck  his  hand  upon  his  brow,  and  groaned  aloud  in  the 
silence  of  the  night ;  and  straightway  it  seemed  to  him  that  a 
low,  guttural,  mocking  laugh  responded,  exulting  to  his  stifled 
cry  of  anguish. 

"  Ha  !  who  is  there  ?"  he  cried  aloud,  and  sprang  forward  in 
the  direction  of  the  fancied  sound  ;  but  no  voice  answered  him, 
nor  any  rustling  noise  of  garments,  or  flight  of  quickening  foot 
steps  on  the  greensward. 

His  rapid  movement,  however,  brought  him  in  contact  with 
the  stem  of  the  second  pine-tree  ;  and,  as  he  brushed  it,  some 
thing  fell  to  the  ground  with  a  sharp  metallic  clatter. 

It  was  the  gun,  for  which  he  had  been  searching. 

He  stooped  and  raised  it  from  the  wet  grass  yet  more  dis 
turbed,  if  possible,  than  he  had  been  before. 

He  paused,  reflected,  harassed  his  memory  with  circum 
stantial  questions. 

No !  he  was  certain,  the  longer  he  reflected  the  more  cer 
tain,  that  it  was  leaning  on  the  other  tree,  when  he  left  it. 
What  then  could  have  removed  it  ? 

He  listened  long  and  vainly  ;  he  stole  round  and  round, 
among  the  trees,  to  and  fro,  over  the  whole  platform,  but  could 
descry  no  trace  of  any  human  being. 

At  length  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  had  been  mistaken, 
and  took  his  way  to  the  rustic  bridge  which  led  seaward  ;  for 
it  was  his  plan  to  break  one  of  the  boat-chains,  and  put  off  to 
sea  during  the  night,  in  order  to  mislead  the  members  of  his 
own  family  into  the  belief  that  he  had  carried  the  old  man  off 


80  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

by  water,  and  so  to  divert  all  search  from  the  neighborhood  of 
this  homestead. 

This  was  soon  done  ;  a  heavy  stone  afforded  him  the  means 
of  shattering  a  weak  link  in  the  chain  which  moored  his  pin 
nace,  fast-locked,  as  he  had  directed,  not  unadvisedly,  by  his 
son  before  supper-time. 

The  tide  was  up,  and  it  cost  him  but  a  small  effort  to  launch 
her ;  he  sprang  in,  shoved  her  twenty  yards  or  better  through 
the  surf,  stepped  her  mast,  spread  her  canvass  to  the  light 
western  gale  ;  and,  leading  the  sheets  aft,  seated  himself  at  the 
tiller,  just  as  the  broad  disk  of  the  moon  raised  its  upper  limb 
above  the  line  of  the  sea  horizon,  and  poured  a  long  sheet  of 
tremulous  lustre  over  the  ridgy  waves,  a  broad  flood  of  glory 
over  the  starry  heavens. 

In  order  to  gain  an  offing,  he  was  compelled  to  tack  once  or 
twice,  for  the  wind  headed  him  ;  and,  in  the  first,  he  stood 
directly  across  the  front  of  the  platform  and  the  bridge. 

Just  as  he  did  so,  a  sudden  splash  in  the  water,  as  if  a  stone 
had  fallen  from  the  cliff,  attracted  his  eyes  upward. 

Did  they  see  truly?  —  was  there  a  dusky  form  watching  his 
motions  from  the  isolated  rock  ? 

The  light  was  quivering  and  uncertain ;  yet  was  his  eye 
true  and  almost  unerring. 

He  saw  it,  as  he  thought,  palpably — distinctly. 

He  stooped,  caught  up  his  long  gun,  from  the  thwarts  on 
which  it  lay. 

The  form,  or  what  his  fancy  shaped  into  a  human  form,  still 
stood  there  ;  he  could  not  be  so  much  in  error. 

He  raised  the  gun  coolly  to  his  face  —  levelled  it  steadily — 
his  finger  was  already  on  the  trigger,  when  a  cloud  obscured 
the  moon  for  an  instant.  It  passed,  and  again  she  shone  forth 
resplendent,  far  brighter  than  before,  for  she  had  now  entirely 
emerged  above  the  undulations  of  the  ocean. 


THE    CAVERN. 


81 


His  eye  was  still  riveted  upon  the  spot,  which  it  had  never 
quitted. 
•    But  there  <was  nothing  there  ! 

Could  he — could  he,  indeed,  twice  in  one  night,  be  so 
strangely  mistaken  ? 

It  might  be  so,  truly  ;  for  his  spirit  was  disturbed,  and  he 
was  both  anxious  and  full  of  vague  imaginations. 

He  put  about,  and  steered  the  boat  twice,  three  times,  to 
and  fro,  before  his  sleeping  home,  but  nothing  more  did  he 
hear  or  see  to  awaken  his  distrust. 

The  breeze  freshened,  and  filled  his  sail,  and  drove  his  boat, 
with  a  hoarse  rippling  laughter,  through  the  long  swelling 
waves,  as  they  began  to  roll  in  heavier,  and  longer,  and  more 
ridgy,  from  the  wide  Atlantic. 

But  he  seemed  to  enjoy  the  quickening  motion,  and  the  fast 
rising  breeze  ;  for  he  spread  yet  more,  yet  more,  canvass,  and 
steered  his  little  boat  as  near  the  wind  as  she  could  lay  her 
course  ;  and  had  there  been,  indeed,  an  eye  watching  him,  it 
would  not  have  been  long  ere  its  espial  would  be  useless,  so 
rapidly  did  he  run  seaward,  and  so  soon  was  his  white  sail  lost 
in  the  silver  wake  of  the  moonbeams. 

4* 


82  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

DAYBREAK    AT    SEA. 
"  Here's  the  smell  of  blood  still." 

THE  hours  of  the  summer  night  fleeted  away.  The  stars 
rose,  ran  their  courses,  arid  set  in  their  appointed  places.  The 
moon  poured  her  soft  splendor  over  the  smiling  waves,  and  in 
her  turn  waxed  dim  and  pale  before  the  advent  of  a  greater 
and  more  glorious  luminary. 

And,  dancing  over  the  silver-crested  ridges  of  the  deep,  with 
the  gay  wind  singing  in  the  cordage,  and  the  divided  waters 
laughing  around  his  prow,  Merciful  Whalley  passed  that  night 
alone,  alone  on  the  azure  ocean,  alone  under  the  starry  sky. 

But  as  in  mightiest  revolutions,  when  they  occur  in  their 
own  days,  men  perceive  little  that  is  new,  or  wonderful,  or 
strange,  but  labor  at  their  daily  toil,  and  eat  their  daily  food,  and 
sleep  their  nightly  slumbers,  careless  and  unconcerned,  amid 
the  shock  of  nations  arid  the  fall  of  dynasties.  So  in  the  cen 
tre  of  those  grandest  and  most  sublime  phenomena  of  nature, 
those  everlasting  witnesses  of  order,  of  design,  of  providence, 
of  an  eternal,  infinite,  and  all-wise  God,  Merciful  Whalley  sat 
'in  the  stern  of  his  pinnace,  seeing  indeed  the  silver  moonlight, 
and  rejoicing  in  its  lustre  ;  riding  the  waves  and  exulting  in 
their  tumultuous  music  ;  yet  scarcely  conscious  of  their  agency, 
and  altogether  careless  of  their  deep  meaning. 

His  mind  was,  in  truth,  too  much  absorbed  by  his  own  in 
terests,  his  own  earthly  fears  and  hopes,  to  give  much  heed  to 
the  vastness,  the  sublimity,  the  truth  of  nature's  teachings. 


DAYBREAK    AT    SEA.  83 

He  was  disturbed  and  anxious  about  the  welfare  and  the 
safety  of  his  father,  and  this  was  the  least  selfish  and  most 
generous  point,  to  which  his  thoughts  were  turned. 

He  was  disturbed  and  anxious  about  his  conduct  to  the  poor 
Indian  girl  ;  not,  indeed,  that  he  repented  his  cruelty,  but  that 
he  feared  its  consequences  —  not  that  his  heart  was  penetrated 
with  sorrow,  and  shame,  and  grief,  at  his  ownjall  from  man 
hood,  virtue,  honor,  and  humanity ;  but  that  his  pride  was 
jralled  at  the  scorn  manifested  by  his  sweet  daughter,  at  the 
open  reproof  of  his  father. 

He  was  disturbed  and  anxious  about  the  state  of  affairs  in 
the  province  generally  ;  about  the  tyranny  and  oppression  of 
the  new  governor;  the  destruction  of  individual  freedom  and 
~bt"  theTpnvileges  of  the  community  ;  not  indeed  from  any  sense 
of  patriotism,  not  from  any  broad  principle,  or  any  noble  im 
pulse,  but  from  feelings  the  most  personal  and  narrow. 

He  feared,  in  fact,  for  his  wealth  —  for  mammon,  his  soul's 
idol!  He  dreaded  sequestration,  perhaps  confiscation;  he 
dreaded,  in  truth,  everything,  except  direct  danger  to  his  person. 

For  he  was,  at  least,  physically  brave  ;  free  from  that  lowest 
and  most  degrading  baseness,  the  fear  of  bodily  pain — perhaps 
the  only  baseness  from  which  he  was  free. 

During  that  whole  night,  he  sat  still  and  pensive  at  the  helm 
of  his  boat.  He  was  in  deep,  abstracted  thought  all  the  time  ; 
and  yet  it  would  have  been  difficult,  perhaps  impossible,  for 
him  to  say  of  what  he  was  thinking. 

Continually  flitting  from  one  small,  narrow  topic  to  another  ; 
at  no  time,  pausing  long  on  any  one  —  at  no  time,  grasping  any 
wide  or  general  view  ;  at  no  time,  blazing  up  with  any  high  or 
godlike  aspiration  —  at  no  time,  soaring  above  the  mists  of 
time  and  place,  or  envisaging  the  infinite  and  eternal ;  the  ac 
tion  of  his  intellect  was,  like  all  else  of  the  man's  character, 
earthy  and  earthward. 


84  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

It  would  appear  strange  to  any  one,  who  had  not  studied 
character,  who  did  not  know  something  of  the  human  heart, 
beyond  the  mere  surface,  to  assert  that  this  man,  whose  whole 
life  was  apparently  devoted  to  religion,  who  had  forsaken  his 
native  land,  with  all  its  ties  and  endearments,  to  seek  in  the 
wilderness  "  freedom  to  worship  God,"  had  yet  no  true  sense 
of  religion  at  all — no  appreciation  of  its  truths,  no  hold  on  its 
comforts.  Yet  such  was  the  truth  —  he  had  some  devotion, 
but  no  piety.  Some  feeling  of  the  necessity  of  worship  ; 
some  faith,  or  at  least  what  stood  in  lieu  of  it ;  some  fervor 
and  excitement  of  imagination  ;  and  yet,  in  truth,  no  religion. 

He  believed,  as  he  had  heard  that  other  men  of  his  own 
caste  and  sect  believed.  He  prayed,  as  he  had  been  taught  to 
pray,  in  his  childhood,  and  as  he  had  seen  his  father  pray  be 
fore  him.  And  this  belief,  such  as  it  was  ;  this  prayer — 
not  gushing  from  the  soul  nor  warm  with  gratitude  and 
love,  but  cold  yet  at  the  same  time  fierce,  barren  of  works, 
fruitless  unto  amendment,  stood  with  him  in  the  place  of  all 
essentials. 

And  all  who  believed  not,  prayed  not,  as  he  believed  and 
prayed,  were  consigned,  by  his  obstinate  and  narrow  prejudices, 
to  the  wrath  to  come. 

He  was  one  of  that  class  of  whom,  alas !  that  they  should 
be  so  numerous,  a  sweet  poetess  has  written  in  these  latter 
days,  and  oh,  how  truly  — 

"  Their  lips  say,  '  God  be  pitiful,' 
That  ne'er  said,  '  God  be  praised  !' " 

—  of  that  class,  who  call  upon  the  name  of  the  Lord,  nightly 
and  in  the  morning,  yet  never  strive  to  do  his  bidding,  never 
think  of  him,  save  when  they  would  ask  something,  never  up 
lift  their  souls  in  gratitude  from  the  created  unto  the  Creator. 
The  whole  of  this  night,  while  he  bounded  onward,  faster 


DAYBREAK    AT    SEA.  85 

and  faster,  on  the  wings  of  the  freshening  hreeze,  he  thought 
of  almost  everything,  save  of  Him  who  is  all  in  all. 

And  the  night  waned  ;  and  the  far  east  was  dappled  with 
gray  streaks,  that  heralded  the  coming  dawn  ;  and  he  started 
as  he  perceived  that  another  day  was  at  hand  ;  yet  he  thought 
of  no  thanksgiving,  no  penitence,  for  the  past.  During  the 
hours  of  darkness,  he  had  run  far  across  the  bay,  eating  con 
tinually  into  the  wind,  which  had  hauled  gradually  round  from 
the  west  southwardly  ;  had  passed  the  harbor  of  Cohasset,  and 
was  fast  heading  down  toward  Plymouth,  and  Barnstaple  bay, 
when  the  daylight  began  to  glimmer  in  the  east. 

Then,  arousing  himself  from  his  vague  and  unprofitable 
meditations,  he  looked  around  him  earnestly,  and  noted  every 
headland  and  indenture  of  the  iron-bound  coast,  until  at  length 
he  was  completely  satisfied  of  his  whereabout. 

Then  he  looked  to  the  sky,  and  was  engaged  for  a  few  sec 
onds  in  calculation,  by  which  to  ascertain  what  hour  it  might 
be  of  the  morning,  and  how  long  he  had  been  afloat. 

Just  as  he  had  settled  this  point  to  his  satisfaction,  he  be 
came  aware  that  he  was  very  cold  and  chilly  ;  for,  to  say  the 
truth,  he  had  been  too  much  excited  before  that  moment  by  his 
own  musings  to  give  much  attention  to  his  personal  comforts 
or  ailments. 

But  now  he  shivered  ;  and  as  he  did  so,  he  stooped  down, 
and  gathering  up  his  boat-cloak  from  the  bench  upon  which  he 
had  thrown  it,  wrapped  himself  in  it  warmly. 

Then,  lashing  the  tiller  fast,  so  that  the  boat  should  still 
hold  its  course,  he  went  forward  ;  opened  the  hatch  of  a  small 
forecastle  ;  and,  after  rummaging  among  its  contents  foi\a  few 
seconds,  produced  a  large,  stone  jug,  or  graybeard,  as  it  was 
then  called,  such  as  was  ordinarily  used  to  contain  distilled 
waters. 

Extracting  with  his  teeth  the  broken  corn-cob,  which  wrap- 


86  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

ped  in  a  hank  of  tow,  had  served  as  a  stopper,  he  raised  it  to 
his  nostrils,  as  if  to  make  sure  of  its  contents  before  suffering 
his  lips  to  encounter  them,  smiled  a  grim  smile  of  satisfaction, 
and,  after  a  very  sufficient  draught,  recorked  it,  returned  it  to 
the  hatch,  and  stalked  back,  greatly  refreshed,  as  he  would 
have  said,  in  spirit  to  his  seat  at  the  helm. 

Meanwhile,  it  was  rapidly  growing  light.  A  rosy  flush  had 
usurped  the  place  of  the  dappled  gray  on  the  horizon  ;  and  the 
fleecy  clouds,  hundreds  of  which  were  hanging  suspended 
in  the  calm,  clear  atmosphere,  assumed  the  same  tell-tale 
coloring. 

Then  a  broad  amber  glow  shot  upward,  and  streamed  longi 
tudinally,  over  the  flickering  wavelets  ;  and  then,  as  it  were 
with  a  bound,  the  great  sun  leaped  forth,  indeed  '  like  a  bride 
groom  from  his  chamber,'  to  run  his  course  of  glory. 

And  it  was  broad,  rejoicing  day. 

Then,  then,  did  the  dark  man's  soul  awake  !  Then  did  his 
spirit  arise  yearning,  as  will  do  that  at  such  a  sight  of  the 
merest  worlding,  to  make  its  morning  sacrifice — to  burst  forth 
into  praise  and  rapturous  thanksgiving  ! 

He  saw  that  it  was  light ;  he  knew  that  the  sun  had  risen, 
because  it  was  light  —  not  because  his  eye,  much  less  his 
breathless  heart,  had  turned  to  contemplate  that  most  immortal 
and  divine  of  this  world's  perishable  splendors. 

He  saw  that  it  was  light,  I  say  ;  he  knew  that  the  sun  had 
risen,  and,  it  is  probable,  had  any  one  expressed  wonder  at  his 
apathy  in  presence  of  that  sublime  wonder,  that  he  would  have 
replied,  that  he  "  had  very  often  seen  it  grow  light  before,  and 
that  the  sun  rose  every  morning." 

How  many  are  there  not,  now  around  us,  who  feel  in  the 
like  manner,  who  would,  perhaps,  make  answer  in  words  of 
like  indifference ! 


DAYBREAK    AT    SEA.  87 

But  was  that  all  he  felt — all  he  saw  in  the  brightening  day 
light  ? 

Reader,  it  was  not  all ! 

He  saw  that,  as  the  day-star  to  which  he  had  not  deemed  it 
worth  while  to  turn  eye  or  thought,  dispersed  the  glooming  twi 
light,  he  saw  that  which  made  him  feel  —  made  him  shudder 
to  the  heart's  core. 

Since  he  had  wrapped  his  cloak  about  him,  and  resumed 
his  seat  at  the  tiller,  his  eye  had  been  riveted  on  his  own  knee, 
on  a  strange  spot,  which  he  could  perceive  indistinctly  on 
the  black  frieze  mantle. 

He  could  not  tear  his  eye  away  from  it,  and  if  he  closed 
the  lids,  striving  to  banish  the  idea,  the  spot  was  there,  palpa 
bly,  more  palpably  before  him,  and  now  sanguine-hued. 

The  sun  rushed  up,  and  it  was  clear,  broad  day ;  and  in  the 
daylight — there  was  now  no  room  for  fantasy  or  error — clear 
and  distinct  that  fatal  spot  assumed  its  true  proportions  —  its 
true  color. 

It  was  the  plain  print  of  a  human  foot  —  a  small,  slender, 
shapely,  human  foot — the  foot  evidently  of  a  female. 

That  print  was  stamped  upon  the  cloak  in  clotted  blood. 

The  truth,  the  whole  truth,  dawned  on  his  soul  in  an  in 
stant.  All  his  precautions  had  been  taken  vainly. 

The  Indian  girl  had  heard  him  quit  the  house  ;  had  risen 
from  her  bed  of  torture  ;  had  hung  upon  his  track ;  followed 
him  to  the  shadow  of  the  pine-trees  beneath  which  he  had 
dropped  his  mantle  ;  had  trodden  on  it  casually,  and  left  her 
accusing  mark,  in  the  clotted  gore,  which  had  been  liquefied 
again  by  contact  with  the  dewy  herbage. 

He  did  not  think  of  this.  It  arrived  in  his  mind  by  no  slow 
process.  It  flashed  on  him  like  lightning.  It  was  true.  At 
once  he  knew  it. 

"  Devil !    devil !"  he   muttered  savagely.     "  She   has  seen 


88  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

all !  —  she  will  betray  all !"  He  paused,  and  broke  forth  again, 
"  No,  no,  though  hell  itself  yawned  for  me  !  —  I  say  no  !  she 
she  shall  not !" 

And  he  put  up  his  helm,  the  sail  shivered,  the  lively  boat 
fell  off,  and  was  full  on  the  other  tack  in  an  instant. 

Away !  before  the  wind  bellying  the  broad  canvass,  away ! 
homeward  ! 

Within  an  hour  he  was  abreast  of  the  city  and  the  fort, 
when  a  fresh  sound  and  a  fresh  sight  again  turned  him  from 
his  track. 

It  was  the  clear  and  piercing  danger  of  a  well-blown  trum 
pet. 

It  was  a  gallant  sloop,  the  tender  of  the  Rose  frigate,  with 
the  cross-pennant  of  St.  George  flaring  out  from  her  topmast, 
with  bright  cuirasses  and  rich  scarlet  doublets  flashing  along 
her  decks,  as  she  stood  full  across  his  course,  from  the  mouth 
of  Boston  harbor. 

Again  he  went  about — again  with  a  gloomy,  bitter  maledic 
tion — and,  taking  in  at  once  three  fourths  or  more  of  his  wide 
spread  canvass,  he  stood  sullenly  and  slowy  seaward. 


DAYBRFAK    AT    HOME.  RQ 


CHAPTER    XII. 

DAYBREAK    AT    HOME. 
"The  morn  is  up  again,  the  laughing  morn." 

THF  commencement  of  a  new  day  generally  is,  and  it  seems 
as  if  it  should  be  always,  a  new  source  of  joy  and  content 
ment. 

And  it  is  very  sad  when  this  beneficent  order  of  nature  is 
so  far  altered  and  reversed,  that  each  "  new  morn"  but  brings 
to  the  poor  sufferer  "  new  sorrows." 

Yet  it  is  thus  but  too  often.  Many,  many  are  those,  who, 
after  wearing  out  sad  nights  on  sleepless  pillows,  or,  at  the 
best,  sinking  at  last  into  that  painful  and  unrefreshing  slumber, 
which  is  not  sleep,  but  worn-out  nature's  trance,  find  nothing 
in  the  coming  of  another  day,  but  the  return  of  thoughts  too 
painful  to  be  borne,  of  memories  of  that  irrevocable  past, 

which,  in  its  time,  most  blissful,  is  now  the  arch-anguish 

remorse,  regret,  repentance,  but  no  hope  —  no  hope  for  any 
thing  in  this  world,  save  its  last  gift  —  the  grave. 

And  if  there  are  —  as  indeed  there  are  —  many  of  the  free, 
the  rich,  the  great,  those  whom  the  foolish  crowd  envy  as  if 
pre-eminently  blessed  who  feel  thus,  what  must  it  be  with  the 
poor,  the  low,  the  starving  pauper  — what  must  it  be  with  the 
slave  ? 

The  same  gorgeous  daybreak,  which  aroused  the  dark  Puri 
tan  from  his  unquiet  and  unholy  musings,  aroused  the  hapless 
Tituba  from  her  painful  and  restless  slumber.  For,  after  she 
had  espied  all  with  the  keen  eye,  treasured  all  in  the  unforgetful 

mind,  of  wakeful  vengeance,  she  had  crept  back  to  her  misera- 
H  * 


90  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

ble  pallet ;  and,  after  wrestling  long  and  tossing  to  and  fro,  in 
the  anguish  of  her  lacerated  body,  in  the  fever  of  her  burning 
mind,  she  had  fallen  into  a  heavy,  dreamless  stupor. 

Now  she  arose,  and  looked  forth  upon  the  morning.  The 
same  glittering  sea  was  outspread  before  her  eyes,  the  same 
gorgeous  heaven  o'erhung  her,  with  the  same  golden  orb, 
charioting  light,  and  life,  and  glory  upward,  on  which  Merciful 
Whalley  was  looking  unconcerned  and  careless. 

And  she,  the  poor,  half-instructed  savage  —  she,  who  had 
heard  of  God,  only  to  find  his  worshippers  her  tyrants  and 
tormentors  —  she,  who  had  learned  servitude,  and  anguish,  and 
Christianity,  as  at  one  and  the  same  lesson  —  she,  to  whom, 
indeed,  a  new  day  was  but  another  word  for  a  new  period  of 
toil  and  torture — how  did  she  gaze  upon  the  miracle  of  light, 
and  in  what  spirit  ? 

There  was  —  there  was,  more  of  the  true,  the  lowly,  and 
the  grateful  spirit  of  the  Christian,  in  that  poor,  overtasked, 
despised,  scourged  heathen,  than  in  her  haughty  master,  who 
like  the  pharisee  blessed  God  that  he  was  not  as  other  men 
are. 

Poor  creature  !  she  distinguished,  and  how  few  of  mankind 
do  so,  between  the  falsehood  of  a  creed,  and  the  error  of  its 
would-be  believers. 

She  could  see  that  all  Christians  were  not  evil,  austere,  bit 
ter,  gloomy,  cruel  ;  although  the  most  of  her  experience  had 
lain  among  those  who  were  so.  She  knew  Ruth  Whalley,  as 
well  as  her  father,  misstyled  Merciful. 

She  loved  the  one,  as  much  as  she  loathed  the  other. 

Loathed  ?  Ay!  loathed,  and  despised  —  for  she  could  read 
his  paltry  soul  —  even  more  than  she  hated. 

For  she  was  born  an  Indian  ;  and  if,  in  some  things,  she 
had  learned  to  be  almost  a  Christian,  she  had  not  yet  learned 
the  Christian's  last  and  hardest  lesson — the  lesson  to  forgive 


DAYBREAK    AT    HOME.  91 

Hers  had  been  once  a  high,  proud,  daring  soul — a  soul 
worthy  of  her  lineage  !  But  suffering  had  broken  the  auda 
cious  pride— weakness  had  tamed  the  elastic,  haughty  heart 

—  sorrow  had  fitted  her  to  the  meek  Christian's  creed. 

And  she  had  listened  to  the  sweet  voice  of  Ruth,  bringing 
her  heavenly  tidings.  And,  with  the  native  poetry  of  a  free, 
wild  imagination,  nursed  in  the  beautiful  and  boundless  wilder 
ness,  she  met  half-way  the  teachings  which  declared  to  her 
the  God  whom  she  had  ignorantly  worshipped  —  in  the  roar 
of  the  cataract,  in  the  music  of  the  treetops,  in  the  still  majesty 
of  solemn  night,  in  the  exulting  splendor  of  the  happy  day. 

And  now,  as  she  gazed  out  over  the  sea,  and  into  the  un 
fathomable  sky,  her  soul  expanded  with  great  vague  indescri 
bable  imaginings.  Her  heart  was  softened  with  poetry  and 
love  ;  imbued  with  a  sense  of  dim,  undefined  religion,  that 
made  her  breath  come  thick,  and  fluttering,  and  faint — that 
filled  her  eyes  with  tears,  but  not  of  sorrow. 

At  this  moment,  there  was  a  stir  in  the  cottage  behind  her 

—  a  hurrying  of  feet  to  and  fro  —  a  flapping  of  doors  —  a  hum 
of  eager  and  anxious  voices. 

Then  a  quick  light  came  up  into  her  dark  eye,  and  the  tear 
drop  was  dried,  in  a  second,  as  if  that  fiery  light  had  been 
pregnant  with  fierce  heat.  And  a  red  burning  flush  mounted 
into  her  dusky  cheeks,  and  sat  there  permanent  —  a  glaring 
spot,  telling  of  terrible  excitement. 

She  clasped  her  small  hand  tight,  so  tight  that  the  nails 
pierced  the  palm. 

She  drew  \  long,  sonorous  breath,  which  sounded  almost 
like  a  sigh,  but  was  none  —  a  wild  inspiration,  full  of  revenge 
ful  triumph. 

"  1  have  them  !"  she  cried  aloud,  casting  her  eloquent  eyes 
up  to  heaven.  "  I  have  them  !  They  are  mine  !  mine  !  mine  ! 
Tituba's  soul  shall  bleed  no  more  with  the  white  man's  torture 


THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

— his  tears,  his  groans  shall  comfort  it!  Tituba's  back  shall 
burn  no  more  with  the  stripes  of  the  white  man's  scourge,  his 
father's  blood  shall  heal  it." 

"  Tituba,  Tituba,"  cried  the  soft  voice  of  Ruth,  from  within  ; 
"  are  you  abroad,  poor  Tituba  ?  Have  you  seen  the  old  man  ? 
Have  you  seen  my  father  ?" 

Her  fiery  glance  sank,  instantly  subdued. 

"  He  is  her  father,"  she  said  gently.  "  Her  heart  would 
bleed  likewise  —  Tituba  is  athirst ;  her  heart  is  very  hot  with 
in  her  !  She  loves  Ruth  —  she  hates  Merciful!  —  well!  she 
will  wait  —  she  will  see  ! — *' 

And  then,  raising  her  voice,  she  replied,  without  answering 
directly  to  the  question  — 

"  Merciful  is  gone  —  old  man  gone." 

"Gone,  whither?  —  whither  have  they  gone?  good  God! 
tell  me  ;  tell  me  ;  what  new  misery  is  this  ?" 

"  Merciful  is  gone,"  she  replied,  waving  her  hand  seaward. 
"  Ruth,  come  with  Tituba,  and  she  will  show  her." 

And  taking  her  young  mistress  by  the  hand,  she  led  her 
swiftly  down  the  little  path  toward  the  bridge,  the  three  boys 
following  eagerly  behind  her.  When  they  reached  the  fence 
of  gnarled  roots  arid  branches  which  guarded  the  platform's 
brink,  she  pointed  downward,  and  all  saw  at  once  that  the  pin 
nace  was  absent. 

Gideon  thrust  his  hand  instantly  into  the  pocket  of  his  doub 
let,  to  ascertain  if  the  keys  were  gone,  with  which  his  father 
had  intrusted  him  at  supper-time.  They  were  still  there. 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  said  doubtfully  — 

"  I  locked  them  all  fast,  with  my  own  hand,  last  night ;  this 
is  strange,  Sister  Ruth." 

"  White  man  no  eyes !"  said  the  Indian  girl,  scornfully. 
"  See,  there,  chain  broken ;  there,  large  stone  chipped  and 
cracked — that  broke  chain!  Boat  gone,  too.  Merciful  gone, 


DAYBREAK    AT    HOME.  93 

old  man  gone  !  That  speaks  clear  as  so  many  words.  Mer 
ciful  in  a  hurry,  broke  chain,  took  boat  —  why  white  boy  ask? 
why  not  look,  see,  understand?" 

"  But,  good  Heaven  !  Tituba,  did  he  take  grandfather  along  ?" 
cried  Ruth,  anxiously  and  much  alarmed. 

"  Tituba  not  see  anything — not  say  anything  about  grand 
father,"  was  the  reply.  "  Merciful  took  gun,  powder,  shot- 
pouch,  fishing-lines,  net,  too  —  they  are  all  gone  —  no  one  else 
taken  them !  Old  grandfather  has  got  legs,  arms,  of  his  own 
— hits,  too,  when  he  like  to  use  them  !  Why  he  not  go  away 
himself?" 

But  as  she  spoke,  there  was  a  glance  in  her  eye  that  told 
Ruth  that  she  knew  more  than  she  chose  to  say.  She  soon 
dismissed  the  boys,  on  some  pretence  or  other,  and  when  they 
were  gone,  turned  to  the  Indian  girl,  and  said,  "Now  tell  me." 

But  Tituba  shook  her  head  only,  and  then  in  her  turn  asked  — 

"  Tell,  Tituba  ?  — why  old  grandfather,  old  Edward  Whalley, 
not  use  his  wits  ?  Tituba  thought  he  had  no  wits.  But  he 
has  many;  great,  quick,  wise,  very  wise.  Why  he  not  use 
them  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell  you,  Tituba,  for  I  know  not,"  replied  Ruth. 

"  Tituba  will  not  tell  you  where  old  Edward  gone,"  was  the 
answer.  "  Better  for  you  to  say,  when  any  one  come  to  ask, 
when  soldier  come  to  ask  where  Edward  Whalley — better  for 
you  to  say,  '  I  can  not  tell  you,  for  I  know  not.'  Tituba  knows 
—  but  will  not." 

"  And  will  you  not  tell  any  one  —  will  you  not  tell  the  sol 
dier,  Tituba  ?"  asked  Ruth,  beginning  now  to  understand  or 
suspect  something  of  the  matter. 

"  Don't  know,"  said  the  girl,  very  doggedly.  "  Merciful 
love  old  Edward  —  Tituba  loves  not  Merciful  —  hates  Merci 
ful  !  Merciful  made  Tituba's  back  bleed !  How  he  like  it,  if 


94  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

Tituba  make  old  Edward's  head  bleed  —  Merciful's  heart 
bleed  !  Don't  know  now  —  know  better  some  time." 

"  See  !  see  !  Ruth,  Ruth  !"  cried  the  the  three  boys,  rushing 
hastily  down  from  the  house,  Gideon  carrying  a  telescope  in 
his  hand  — "  See,  there  is  a  sloop,  with  the  royal  flag,  steering 
straight  hitherward.  She  is  full  of  men,  too!  —  soldiers  in 
scarlet  cassocks,  and  bright  armor !" 

Ruth  looked  up  hastily  ;  and  there,  almost  within  a  pistol- 
shot,  lay  the  Rose's  tender,  her  head  veering  slowly  to  the 
wind,  and  her  white  sails  coming  down  with  a  run,  as  she 
dropped  her  anchor. 

"  Perhaps,  know  better  soon  /"  said  Tituba,  with  emphasis. 
"  Know  all,  why  he  not  use  his  wits  ;  why  he  gone  —  perhaps 
where." 

11  But  do  you  know  why  he  did  not  use  his  senses  —  why  he 
has  gone  ?"  exclaimed  Ruth,  in  amazement. 

"  Perhaps  !"  answered  the  quick-witted  girl  —  "perhaps  he 
lose  his  wits,  so  to  save  his  head  —  perhaps  gone  for  the  same 
reason !  Perhaps,  soldier  come  to  take  it." 

"  Do  you  love  me,  Tituba  ?" 

"  Yes  !  yes  !''  she  replied  eagerly  :  "  much,  very  much  !  — 
why  ask,  Ruth,  when  you  know  I  love  you  ?" 

"  If  you  do  love  me,  Tituba ;  you  will  not  tell  these  men." 

"  Don't  know,"  she  again  answered  doggedly;  "hate  Mer 
ciful,  love  Ruth  !  Love  revenge,  too  !  Revenge  very  sweet, 
perhaps  love  revenge  better." 

And,  with  the  words,  she  turned  away,  and  walked  off,  with 
a  dogged  and  angry  air,  that  showed  it  would  be  useless  to  ad 
dress  her  farther. 

Then  there  came  from  the  ship  the  clear,  sharp  clangor  of 
the  trumpet,  and  a  hoarse  voice  • — 

"  What,  ho  !  there  ;  house,  ahoy  !" 

"  Ahoy !"  replied  the  elder  of  the  sons. 


THE    ROYAL    GOVERNOR.  95 

"  Send  a  boat  instantly,"  answered  the  voice. 

"  Ay !  ay !"  cried  Gideon  ;  and  sprang  hastily  down  the 
steps,  calling  his  second  brother  to  accompany  him,  prompt  to 
obey  the  unfriendly  summons. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE    ROYAL    GOVERNOR. 

"  Come  guard  the  door  without ;  let  him  not  pass, 
But  kill  him  rather." 

BUT  a  few  minutes  had  elapsed,  since  Gideon  had  crossed 
the  gangway  of  the  English  pinnace,  when  the  alarmed  spec 
tators,  who  numbered  by  this  time  all  the  household  of  the 
Cove  cottage,  beheld  a  larger  boat  lowered  from  the  stern  of 
the  man-of-war.  A  dozen  persons  entered  her ;  four  of  them 
ordinary  sailors,  two  men,  as  it  appeared  of  superior  rank,  and 
five  armed  soldiers,  having  Gideon,  now  seemingly  a  prisoner, 
in  the  midst  of  them. 

No  long  time  was,  however,  given  them  for  speculation  or 
surmise.  Six  or  eight  strokes  of  the  oars  brought  the  boat  to 
the  little  dock,  at  which  she  was  made  fast ;  and  then,  leaving 
one  man  as  boat-keeper,  and  posting  another  as  a  sentinel  with 
his  match  lighted  on  the  round-headed  rock,  the  party  landed. 

The  first  who  crossed  the  bridge  was  a  tall,  dark-complex 
ioned  man,  of  a  fine  figure  and  stately  bearing,  who  might,  per 
haps,  have  numbered  some  forty-six  or  forty-seven  years.  He 
was  attired  magnificently  in  the  costume  worn  at  the  court  of 
the  second  James,  a  loose  coat  of  crimson  velvet,  splendidly 
laced  with  gold  above  a  glittering  steel  breast-plate  which 
shone  like  silver  in  the  dazzling  sunbeams.  Full  breeches  of 


90  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

the  same  material  with  his  coat,  and  heavy  horseman's  boots, 
adorned  with  the  gilt  spurs  of  knighthood,  a  huge  black  wig, 
falling  quite  down  to  his  shoulders,  and  reeking  with  the  most 
exquisite  perfumes,  and  a  low-crowned  beaver  decorated  by  a 
hat-band  of  white  feathers,  completed  the  attire  of  this  proud 
dignitary.  The  only  weapon  which  he  carried,  was  the  ordi 
nary  walking  rapier  of  the  day,  suspended  by  a  broad,  blue 
silk  scarf,  crossing  his  cuirass  under  the  velvet  coat ;  but  he 
held  in  his  hand  a  handsome  clouded  cane  with  a  crutch  head 
of  solid  gold. 

The  demeanor  of  this  gentleman  was  stately,  perhaps  even 
haughty  ;  and,  although  he  was  by  no  means  void  of  that  quie 
tude  and  easy  grace  which  arise  from  a  consciousness  of 
high  station  and  gentle  birth,  his  carriage  and  the  supercilious 
ness  of  his  glance  seemed  to  betoken  both  arrogance  and  pre 
sumption. 

His  face  was  such  as  many  persons  would  term  handsome, 
for  the  features  were  all  well  formed  and  regular,  the  eye  was 
clear  and  piercing,  and  the  coloring  fine  and  harmonious.  Nor 
was  there  wanting  a  strong  intellectual  expression  on  the  brow, 
an  air  of  indomitable  resolution  about  the  mouth.  Yet  was 
the  whole  expression  of  the  face  of  Sir  Edmund  Andross  — 
for  the  unwelcome  visiter  was  no  other  than  the  new  governor 
of  the  Bay  Province  —  unpleading,  nay  almost  repulsive. 

It  was  impossible  to  look  twice  at  that  countenance,  with 
out  reading  in  its  strong  lines  a  dark  tale  of  indulged  and  pan 
dered  passions,  of  fierce  licentiousness,  unbridled  insolence, 
and  all  the  evil  habits  of  the  mind,  which  are  so  apt  to  be  the 
fruits  of  an  unchecked  career,  whether  of  public  or  of  private 
despotism. 

Never,  perhaps,  were  two  men  more  alike,  and  at  the  same 
moment  more  different,  than  Sir  Edmund  Andross,  the  royal 
governor,  and  Merciful  Whalley,  the  rebellious  Puritan. 


THE    ROVAL    GOVERNOR.  97 

Both  of  these  men  were  fanatics  —  Andross  of  loyalty  and 
aristocracy  —  Whalley  of  bigotry  and  independence. 

In  both  did  the  fanaticism,  which  was  visible  in  every  action 
of  their  lives,  subserve  to  one  end  —  self-glory,  self-gratification. 

Both  men  were  self-deceivers  ;  the  one  served  Mammon 
only,  believing  that  he  served  his  God  —  the  other,  while  pro 
fessing  to  be  the  creature  only  of  his  king,  was  the  slave  of  his 
own  power,  pleasure,  and  lust. 

Neither  would  have  paused  one  moment  to  consider  how 
many  tears  or  how  much  agony  his  own  gratification  would 
cost  any  man  ;  or  hesitated,  at  all  risks,  to  obey  his  own  im 
pulses.  But  Andross  would  have  trampled  under  foot  openly 
the  law  which  restrained  him.  Whalley  would  have  violated 
it  as  readily,  professing  all  the  while  his  veneration  for  its  au 
thority,  and  proving  by  hypocritic  cant  that  to  violate  was  to 
obey  it. 

Such  were  the  two  men,  whom  the  policy  of  others,  no  less 
lhan  their  own  passions,  were  soon  about  to  bring  into  collis 
ion.  They  were  both  keen-witted,  bold,  daring,  and  unscru 
pulous  ;  both  equally  subservient  to  self-interest ;  equally 
reckless  of  the  rights  of  others. 

But,  although  Andross  was  armed  with  all  the  authority 
which  a  despotic  king  can  delegate  to  his  most  trusted  minis 
ter,  the  Puritan  was  the  stronger  —  the  more  dangerous.  The 
stronger,  because,  while  in  truth,  scorning  utterly  all  the  opin 
ions  of  all  men,  he  professed  to  obey  the  public  voice  implicit 
ly —  because,  while  acting  wholly  in  obedience  to  the  basest 
of  earthly  passions,  he  successfully  presented  an  exterior  of 
austere  and  self-denying  virtue  —  because,  in  one  word,  he 
concentrated  all  his  energies  upon  one  point,  and  led  the  peo 
ple  with  him,  as  surely  as  by  chains  of  iron,  through  their  own 
flattered  prejudices. 

Sir  Edmund,  on  the  contrary,  sought  for  no  golden  opinions 
1  5 


98  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

from  any  sort  of  people  —  he  bore  his  vices  on  as  bold  a  front 
as  if  they  had  been  virtues  ;  and  cared  not  a  rush  which  they 
were  esteemed.  He  was  continually  shocking  the  scruples 
and  wounding  the  prejudices  of  men,  on  matters  of  no  moment, 
offending  to  no  purpose  when,  with  a  little  management,  he 
might  as  well  have  been  conciliated ;  arid  thus  laying  up 
against  himself  hoards  of  enmity  and  resistance  to  be  brought 
forth,  and  perhaps  to  turn  the  struggle,  in  times  of  real  emer 
gency,  efforts  of  real  moment. 

Such  was  the  man,  who  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
set  foot  upon  the  green  sward  of  that  secluded  cove  —  set  his 
foot  there,  unconscious  that  in  so  doing,  he  was  taking  the 
step,  which  of  all  others  involved  most  deeply  the  fortunes,  the 
fate  of  his  whole  career. 

Yet  so  it  is,  but  too  often,  with  us  all  —  the  wisest  as  the 
weakest ! 

We  strive  with  ceaseless  toil,  with  multifarious  turmoil,  to 
rear  some  mighty  scheme,  which  is  to  build  our  fortune  as 
high  as  the  rash  edifice  on  Shinar's  plain  !  The  bubble  bursts 
—  and  lo,  thin  wind,  and  an  unsavory  odor! 

We  go  about  some  trivial  thing,  some  careless  task,  perhaps 
some  lightsome  pleasure,  thinking  of  no  result  beyond  the 
present ;  and  thence,  by  no  effort,  no  thought  even  of  your 
own  advancement,  greatness,  glory. 

The  combination,  which  we  most  strenuously  guard  against, 
as  the  most  ruinous,  will  work  together  in  the  despite  of  all 
our  efforts,  and  works  at  last  not  ruin  but  unheard-of  pros 
perity. 

The  plan,  which  we  have  laid  most  craftily  to  win  us  glory, 
succeeds  beyond  our  wishes,  and  we  are  crushed  by  its  suc 
cess. 

What  is  this  ?     Fortune  ?     Accident  ?     Fate  ? 

Fortune  is  nothing,  save  in  the  chances  of  a  die  !    Accidents, 


THE    ROYAL    GOVERNOR. 


99 


there  are  none  in  this  vast  universe,  from  the  fall  of  the  spar 
row  to  the  death  of  the  hero  ! 

Fate  is What  ?  a  weak  —  I  had  nearly  said  wicked  — 

word  to  express  the  ways  of  God,  which  are  in  themselves 
all  wise,  though  in  our  small,  presumptuous  blindness  we  dis 
cern  not,  and  miscall  their  wisdom. 

Sir  Edmund  Andross  landed  that  morning  from  his  gay  pin 
nace  upon  the  wild  and  lonely  coast,  thinking  to  find  a  regi 
cide,  a  captive  —  he  found  instead  his  fate  ! 

To  him,  that  morning  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

And  in  his  train  there  was  another,  who,  very  different  in 
all  respects  from  his  chief,  had  cause,  for  many  a  day,  to  call 
to  mind  that  fruitless  mission,  that  rude  cottage  and  its  tenants. 

To  Henry  Cecil,  also,  that  morning  was  the  unsuspected 
cause  of  many  and  strange  things.  The  captain  of  Sir  Ed 
mund's  body-gUard,  the  scion  of  one,  among  the  noblest  of  Eng 
land's  old  patrician  houses,  he  had  applied  for  the  appointment, 
more  in  a  gay  and  romantic  spirit  of  adventure,  more  in  the 
heat  of  a  young  poetical  imagination,  prompting  him  with  the 
wish  to  see  the  marvels  of  the  great  Western  World,  than  in 
any  desire  of  gaining  advancement,  or  of  achieving  glory. 

Too  young,  and,  to  speak  the  truth,  too  gay  and  thoughtless, 
to  have  reflected  much  or  deeply  on  politics,  or  on  the  art  of 
government,  he  was,  in  the  true  spirit  of  the  fearless,  faithful 
cavalier,  a  firm  believer  in  the  church,  a  stanch  supporter  of 
the  king.  His  whole  soul  full  of  the  high  aristocratic  creed, 
the  high  aristocratic  virtues,  he  could  no  more  imagine  a  true 
religion,  apart  from  the  one,  than  a  consistent  or  sound  liberty, 
without  the  other. 

Yet  never  did  a  young  heart  thrill  more  quickly  to  th*  re 
publican  renown  of  a  Brutus,  a  Timoleon,  or  a  Cato,  than  did 
that  enthusiastic  royalist's.  Never  did  tenderest  heart  of  wo 
man  sympathize  more  compassionately  with  the  sufferings,  or 


100  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

fieriest  heart  of  the  patriot  blaze  more  indignantly  at  the 
wrongs,  of  the  poor  or  unprotected. 

And  yet  this  youth  was  linked  as  a  comrade  and  supporter, 
nay,  in  some  sort  connected  as  a  friend  to  the  contemner  of 
all  virtue,  the  scorner  of  all  glory,  the  grinder  of  the  poor,  the 
oppressor  of  the  weak  —  the  despot  Andross. 

In  form  and  appearance  also,  Sir  Henry  Cecil  was  as  strong 
ly  contrasted  with  his  superior,  as  in  the  qualities  of  intellect 
and  heart. 

Not  above  six-and-twenty  years  of  age,  he  at  this  time  pre 
sented  as  perfect  a  model  as  can  well  be  imagined  of  complete 
youthful  manhood.  Somewhat  above  the  middle  stature,  his 
slender  yet  symmetrical  frame  gave  promise  of  great  strength 
in  future,  while  it  was  evident  even  now  that  it  possessed  that 
springy,  vigorous,  and  active  elasticity,  which  in  the  young 
supplies  admirably  the  want  of  that  tempered  and  hard  robust 
ness,  which  comes  only  with  maturer  manhood. 

His  face  was  eminently  handsome,  not  regular  indeed  or 
perfect  in  feature,  but  what  is  much  better,  full  of  fine  feeling, 
deeply  fraught  with  social,  alive  with  the  flashing  light  of, 
intellect.  A  broad  fair  forehead,  not  very  high,  but  singularly 
firm  and  thoughtful ;  large  gray  eyes  clear  as  steel,  and  quick 
as  the  ray  that  flashes  from  its  polished  surface  when  sudden 
light  enkindles  it ;  dark  eyebrows,  and  long  lashes  ;  a  nose 
somewhat  too  prominent  perhaps  for  beauty  ;  and  a  mouth,  the 
lines  of  which  were  rich  with  every  good  and  gentle  expres 
sion,  at  times  arch  and  humorous,  yet  lacking  not  their  share 
of  firmness  and  even  pride,  and  a  well-cut,  bold  chin,  com 
pleted  the  contour  of  his  singularly  winning  and  attractive 
countenance. 

His  hair  of  a  light  sunny  brown,  for  he  was  both  too  hand 
some  and  too  high-born,  and  yet  more  too  free  of  spirit,  to  be 
trammelled  by  the  hideous  fashions  of  the  day,  fell  in  a  profusion 


THE    ROYAL    GOVERNOR.  101 

of  long  wavy  curls  over  the  collar  of  his  doublet,  like  those  of 
the  gallant  cavaliers  of  the  first  King  Charles,  unpolluted  by 
the  disfigurement  of  hair-powder,  and  undistorted  by  the  bar 
ber's  irons. 

His  mustaches,  and  the  long-pointed  beard  which  he  wo^e 
on  his  chin,  were  many  shades  darker  than  his  hair,  and  gave 
a  military  and  manly  expression  to  a  face,  which  its  fair  com 
plexion  and  air  of  extreme  youth  would  otherwise  have  ren 
dered  somewhat  effeminate  for  one  who  had,  for  years  already, 
commanded  veteran  soldiers. 

He  wore  the  scarlet  uniform  which  had  already  been  adopt 
ed  as  the  uniform  of  England  —  though  not  at  all,  as  some  wri 
ters  have  asserted  falsely  as  the  livery  of  the  king  ;  it  being 
Cromwell  who  first  brought  it  into  use  —  but  of  a  widely  differ 
ent  fashion  from  that  of  the  present  day.  There  was  the 
scarlet  indeed  and  the  glittering  lace  ;  but  the  long  shoulder- 
knots  of  riband  with  aiguilettes  of  bullion  were  as  different 
from  the  modern  epaulette,  as  the  long  cambric  cravat  trimmed 
with  rich  Valenciennes  from  the  black  stock,  or  the  bright  plates 
of  polished  steel  guarding  the  neck  and  shoulders  from  the 
small  moon-shaped  gorget,  which  bears  its  name,  with  neither 
its  utility  nor  its  splendor.  Ruffles  of  Brussels  lace  at  the 
wrists  of  the  coat,  and  at  the  knees  of  the  breeches,  a  flutter 
ing  scarf  of  silk  and  gold  crossing  the  left  breast  and  wound 
afterward  about  the  waist,  supporting  the  long  horseman's 
sword,  huge  boots,  and  the  hat,  with  its  cincture  of  snowy 
plumes,  made  a  gay  show,  indeed  ;  and  the  free  line  and  grace 
ful  flow  of  all  the  decorations  formed  a  picture  far  more  at 
tractive,  though  scarce  so  practical  or  soldierly  a  display,  as 
the  closer  and  more  angular  lines  of  the  modern  costume. 

The  rest  of  the  party  consisted  of  a  lancepersade  or  corpor 
al,  with  four  private  troopers  of  Andross'  body-guard,  all  splen 
didly  equipped  and  heavily  armed,  with  long  broad-swords 


102  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

clanking  on  their  heels,  pistols  in  their  girdles,  and  carabines 
or  musquetoons,  with  lighted  matches,  in  their  hands. 

Behind  these  men,  came  Gideon,  in  charge,  as  it  seemed; 
of  the  two  sailors,  who  had  landed  ;  and  one  of  whom  walked 
on  each  side  of  him,  with  a  cocked  pistol  in  his  hand. 

Deep  consternation  fell  on  the  hearts  of  all  the  tenants  of 
the  little  cottage,  as  that  proud  pomp  ascended  the  rugged 
staircase  and  crossed  the  rustic  bridge.  They  knew  not,  in 
deed,  nor  could  they  in  any  wise  imagine,  the  object  of  this 
visit.  They  were  unconscious  even  of  the  persons,  who  thus 
broke  in  upon  their  privacy. 

But  they  perceived  at  once  they  were  men  high  in  authority  ; 
and  that  they  came  thither,  as  the  soldiers  proved,  with  no  in 
tent  of  peace  or  friendship. 

Ruth's  eye  fell  first  upon  the  pleasant  face  and  gentle  linea 
ments  of  Cecil ;  but  ere  it  dwelt  there  a  moment,  or  gained 
confidence  from  what  it  read  therein,  the  baleful  features  and 
sinister  expression  of  Sir  Edmund  flashed  upon  her,  and  she 
beheld  Cecil  no  longer. 

It  was  strange  with  how  stern  a  fascination  that  evil  visage 
and  dark  lurid  eye  riveted  the  glance  of  the  fair  girl  in  anxious 
agony. 

The  sight  gave  her  pain,  exquisite  pain.  Yet,  had  it  been 
to  preserve  her  life,  she  could  not  have  withdrawn  her  eyes. 

She  shuddered,  and  a  wild  terror  crept  into  her  soul  —  was 
it  a  prescient  sense  of  that  which  was  to  come  ? 

She  struggled  with  that  vague,  dismal  terror — but  she  could 
not  dispel  it ;  and,  while  she  was  yet  gazing,  he  caught  her  as 
it  were  in  the  fact,  and  smiled  with  a  fierce  and  almost  fiend 
ish  glee,  rejoicing  in  the  mastery  which  he  felt  that  his  mere 
aspect  had  exerted  over  her. 

Andross  had  met  his  fate  !  — 


THE    SEARCH.  103 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    SEARCH. 
"Dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority." 

ALTHOUGH  no  person  of  those  present  suspected  the  ohject 
of  this  strange  arrival,  all  were  alarmed  and  apprehensive  of 
some  evil. 

Nor  were  theii  fears  diminished  by  the  h'rst  words  of  the 
leader  of  the  party  — 

"  Hah !"  he  said,  in  harsh  and  haughty  tone,  that  corre 
sponded  well  with  his  port  and  the  expression  of  his  features, 
"ha!  what  is  this  —  what  is  this  he  tells  me?  Merciful 
Whalley  absent — where  is  he?  Ha!  when  went  he  forth? 
Whither  hath  he  gone  ?  Speak  out,  I  say,  or  by  St.  George, 
ye  shall  rue  it." 

His  words  were  addressed  apparently  to  the  mother  of  the 
family,  although  his  licentious  gaze  never  left  the  fair  features 
of  the  daughter. 

"  Nay,  noble  sir,"  faltered  the  timid  woman,  "  we  know  not 
when  he  went,  nor  whither,  nor  can  we  tell  you  where  he  is  ; 
for  — " 

"  God's  life  !"  returned  the  other,  "  dost  think  I  am  a  fool  to 
be  put  off  with  such  lies  as  this  ;  or  one  of  your  drivelling 
beggars  of  town  elders,  to  lack  the  means  to  extort  truth. 
Know,  woman,  that  your  husband  is  accused,  under  heavy  cir 
cumstances,  of  high  treason,  in  harboring  and  helping  an  ex- 
jommunicate  and  outlawed  knave  and  felon,  one  Edward 
Whalley  ;  truly  a  parricide  ;  one  of  the  bloody  and  accursed 
murderers  of  that  most  holy  martyr,  King  Charles  I.,  of — " 


104  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

"  My  grandfather  !"  exclaimed  Ruth,  clasping  her  hands,  in 
an  ecstacy  of  terror,  and  for  a  moment  losing  her  wonted  self- 
control — "  this,  then,  is  the  fearful  secret !" 

"  Ha  !  didst  thou  know  it,  too  1  Wert  thou,  too,  aiding  and 
abetting  in  this  crime  ?"  said  the  governor,  turning  with  a  tri 
umphant  smile  toward  the  maiden. 

"  If  crime  it  be  to  cherish  a  weak,  old,  distraught  and  help 
less  man — yes  !"  replied  Ruth,  firmly. 

"If  it  be  a  crime  to  shelter  the  king's  traitor!  If — into  a 
pestilent  nest  of  rebels  we  seem  to  have  fallen  !  Now,  mark 
me,  little  one,  were  I  disposed  to  severity,  I  might  arrest  thee 
instantly,  as  guilty  on  thine  own  confession  of  misprision  of 
this  heinous  treason — the  forfeiture  of  which  is  death!* 
Knowest  thou  that,  ha  ?" 

"  I  knew  it  not,"  she  answered  mournfully,  but  steadily. 
"  I  only  know  that  the  law  of  God  commands  us  to  '  honor  our 
father  and  our  mother  that  our  days  may  be  long  in  the  land.' 
Other  law  know  I  none,  nor  have  heard  of  it.  Nevertheless, 
God's  will  be  done  !" 

"  Oh  !  noble  sir,  dear  sir,"  exclaimed  her  mother,  casting 
herself  at  his  feet,  "  she  knew  it  not  —  she  knew  it  not!  So 
surely  as  the  Lord  liveth,  she  knew  not  that  her  grandsire  was 
one  of  the  appointed  judges  of  the  late  man  !" 

And  in  the  extremity  of  her  terror  for  her  daughter's  safety, 
she  used  the  words,  which,  often  heard  on  the  lips  of  the  fierce 
Puritan,  were  in  themselves  almost  enough  to  have  convicted 
her,  in  those  days,  of  treason. 

"  '  Appointed  judges  of  THE  LATE  MAN  !'  Ha!  by  the  spirit 
of  rebellion !"  shouted  Sir  Edmund  furiously,  and  no  longer 

*  The  punishment  for  misprision  of  treason  was  not  death  by  the  law, 
but  this  period  of  English  history  is  peculiar  for  the  subjection  of  the  law 
to  the  royal  will ;  and  the  crime  for  which  Lord  "William  Russell  suffered 
was,  at  the  worst,  but  misprision  of  treason. 


THE    SEARCH.  105 

with  feigned  anger,  for,  in  despite  of  all  his  inconsistencies 
and  vices,  he  had  at  least  this  merit,  that  he  was  faithful  and 
sincere  in  his  creed  of  loyalty,  however  ultra  it  might  be. 
"  Appointed  judges  !  Mark  that,  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  the  godless, 
hypocritical,  blood-thirsty,  low-born  butchers  of  his  most  sa 
cred  majesty,  she  dares  to  designate  'appointed  judges  !'  The 
king  by  right  divine,  the  Lord's  anointed,  she  blasphemously 
terms  'the  late  man.'  I  know  not  wherefore  we  should  tarry 
for  any  further  proof.  I  know  not  wherefore  I  should  not  or 
der  all  these  into  instant  custody,  to  be  dealt  with  thereafter  as 
the  law  directs,  and  this  den  of  thieves  and  traitors  to  be  level 
led  forthwith  to  the  ground !" 

Cecil,  thus  called  upon,  approached  the  governor,  not  with 
out  some  expression  of  dissatisfaction  upon  his  noble  features, 
and  spoke  to  him  for  a  few  seconds  in  a  low  voice,  so  that  no 
words  of  his  reached  the  ears  of  any  other  than  Sir  Edmund. 
Yet  was  it  plain  enough,  that  they  were  unpalatable  to  the 
great  man.  His  brows  were  contracted  into  so  dark  a  frown 
that  they  almost  met.  His  eyes  flashed  with  a  lurid  and  fierce 
light.  His  nether  lip  quivered  with  impatience,  and  he  re 
peatedly  clutched  the  hilt  of  his  sword  with  a  rapid  gesture, 
while  his  lieutenant  was  speaking.  At  length,  however,  his 
quick  temper  mastered  him,  and  he  broke  out  with  a  fierce 
oath, 

"Ignorant!  ignorant!  No!  by  the  life  of  Him  that  made 
me  !  here  is  no  ignorance,  but  most  rank  rebellion,  as  I  shall 
show  you  presently !  Hark  you,  girl,  answer  me  what  I  shall 
ask  of  you  ;  and  see  that  you  answer  truly." 

"  If  at  all  of  a  surety,"  replied  Ruth,  "  I  shall  answer  truly." 

"If — mark  me  that  if,  Sir  Henry!  Well,  mistress,  you 
did  not  know,  you  tell  me,  that  this  grandfather  of  yours  was 
one  of  the  king's  murderers  ;  is  this  so  ?" 

5* 


106  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

"  I  profess,  as  the  Lord  liveth,  that  she  knew  not  the  king 
was  slain  at  all !"  replied  her  mother. 

But  taking  no  heed  of  the  interruption,  and  keeping  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  girl's  ingenuous  features,  Andross  excjaimed 
sharply, 

"  Answer  me,  mistress,  yea  or  nay  !" 

"  I  knew  not  that  he  was  one  of  the  king's  judges  !"  answered 
the  maiden  ;  "  but  my  mother  errs,  I  did  know  that  the  king 
was  judged  to  death  and  slain  by  his  people  !" 

"  Ha  !  thou  didst  know  that — of  a  truth  thou  art  learned, 
lass,  already ;  and  yet,  I  trow,  thou  shalt  be  taught  a  thing  or 
two  thou  knowest  not,  ere  I  have  done  with  thee.  Now,  tell 
me,  beautiful  precision  that  thou  art,  didst  thou  not  know  that 
this  grandfather  of  thine  was  a  proscribed  and  outlawed 
traitor  ?" 

"  I  knew  it  not !"  she  replied  firmly. 

"  Nor  that,  by  the  king's  proclamation  it  was  made  treason, 
under  penalty  of  death,  to  rest  or  harbor  him." 

"Nor  that,  sir,  either;  but,  natheless — "  She  was  about 
to  add  something  further  ;  but,  as  she  was  on  the  point  of 
speaking,  a  quick  glance  from  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  who  stood  a 
little  way  behind  the  governor,  and  his  finger  laid  on  his  lip, 
gave  her  timely  warning,  and  she  stopped  short  and  was 
silent. 

"  But,  natheless/'  repeated  the  governor,  mocking  her, 
"  natheless  what,  sweet  one  ?" 

"  I  have  already  replied,  noble  sir,"  she  made  answer, 
calmly,  "  that  I  knew  not,  nor  had  ever  heard  of  the  procla 
mation  which  you  named." 

"But  you  began  to  say  something  more  —  what  was  it? 
Palter  not  with  me,  minion  ?" 

"  I  believe,  sir,  that  you  have  not  the  right  to  ask  me  that," 
replied  the  young  girl. 


THE    SEARCH.  107 

"  I  think  not,  indeed,"  said  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  gravely,  although 
his  face  was  somewhat  flushed,  and  his  eye  keen  and  angry. 

The  governor,  irritated  already  by  the  demeanor  of  Ruth, 
turned  furiously  on  the  young  baronet,  whose  well-intended  in 
terruption,  perhaps,  did  no  real  service  to  the  maiden. 

"  I  believe,  sir,"  he  said  in  accents  of  the  most  imperious  and 
galling  scorn,  "  that  you  hold  a  commission  as  captain  in  the 
king's  horse  regiment,  maintained  as  my  body-guard  ;  but  I  am 
yet  to  be  informed  that  you  are  associated  with  me  either  as  an 
expounder  of  hard  points  of  law,  or  as  the  keeper  of  my  con 
science.  For  you,  minion,  if  you  answer  riot,  and  that  in 
stantly,  you  shall  know,  ere  you  are  six  hours  older,  that  I 
have  the  right  to  do  whatever  I  think  proper  in  this  stiff-neck 
ed  and  insolent  Bay-Province.  It  were  a  fine  thing,  truly,  if 
the  immunities  and  privileges  which  belong  to  the  free-born 
Englishman  alone  should  follow  such  a  sort  of  runagates  as 
ye  are  to  the  world's  end,  and  pass  down  to  generations. 
Speak,  I  say,  wench,  or  we  will  take  means  that  shall  make 
you  find  your  tongue  !" 

"  Natheless,  had  I  heard  the  king's  proclamation,  or  any 
other  human  law,  commanding  me  to  do  that  which  God's  law 
prohibits,  or  prohibiting  that  which  God's  law  commands,  I 
should  have  surely  disregarded  it." 

"  I  thought  so,"  answered  the  governor,  with  a  sneer.  "  Now, 
are  you  satisfied,  Sir  Henry.  Proper  wise  heads  are  yours 
to  judge  the  legality  of  laws.  Any  excuse  for  rebellion  is 
enough,  it  seems.  So,  I  suppose,  as  a  corollary  from  this  loyal 
axiom,  you  have  hid  the  old  traitor  from  us  likewise." 

"  It  needeth  not,"  answered  Ruth.  "  For  he,  too,  is  gone, 
and  we  know  not  whither." 

"  Gone  !  Jade,  thou  liest !"  cried  the  despot  in  a  furious 
rage,  grasping  her  by  the  slender  wrist  and  shaking  her  vio 
lently.  "  Gone  !  —  whither  ?  —  when  ? — but,  surely  I  am  mad 


108  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

to  ask,  for  this  is  palpably  a  lie  !  Take  two  of  the  men,  Sir 
Henry,  and  search  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  hut,  and 
arrest  the  old  knave  and  dotard  who  is  concealed  doubtless 
in  some  cunning  place.  He  is  too  old  and  feeble  to  be 
removed  far." 

The  brave  and  generous-minded  young  man  obeyed  silently, 
not  perhaps  displeased  at  being  sent  from  the  immediate  spot, 
where  he  was  likely  to  witness  so  much  that  made  his  blood 
boil,  which  yet  he  dared  not  as  a  soldier  under  his  legitimate 
superior  object  to,  or  resist. 

As  Cecil  moved  away,  however,  with  the  men,  taking  one 
of  the  younger  boys  along  with  them  to  open  the  doors,  Sir 
Edmund,  who  was  no  mean  judge  of  character,  no  unskilled 
reader  of  the  human  heart,  was  pretty  well  convinced  that  the 
woman  had  spoken  the  truth,  and  that  his  victims  had,  indeed, 
escaped  him  ;  for  their  demeanor  was  so  quiet  and  fearless, 
that  it  betokened  their  consciousness,  that  there  was  little  or 
no  danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the  search. 

"  You  say  that  they  are  both  gone,  and  that  you  know  not 
whither  ?  How  is  this,  or  how  can  it  be  ?  Woman,  didst 
thou  not  ask  thy  husband,  nor  thou,  girl,  thy  father,  whither 
he  was  bound,  when  he  would  return  ?" 

"  We  knew  not,"  they  both  answered  in  a  breath,  "  that  he 
was  going  hence  at  all.  When  we  retired  to  bed  last  night, 
they  were  together  communing  and  praying  in  the  kitchen,  nor 
till  we  fell  asleep,  did  we  lose  the  sound  of  their  voices.  When 
we  arose  this  morning  early,  the  chain  of  the  boat  was  broken, 
and  they  were  both  gone  hence." 

"  Ha !  that  may  be  indeed.  Is  it  your  husband's  wont  thus 
to  go  often  forth  by  night  ?" 

"  Well-nigh  nightly,"  answered  the  woman,  either  to  fish  or 
10  fowl,  which  are  a  part  of  his  occupation  ;  nor  does  he  ever 
tell  us  what  he  intends  to  do,  or  whither  he  is  going.  He  is  a 


THE    SEARCH.  109 

silent  man  and  very  secret.  Nor  do  I  dare  to  ask  him  what 
he  tells  me  not  of  his  own  free  will." 

"  And  goes  the  old  man  with  him  oftentimes  ?" 

"  Never  before  since  we  have  dwelt  here." 

"  Nor  has  he  gone  hence  now,  I  fancy,"  said  the  tyrant 
coldly,  "  but  we  will  soon  see.  Ha !  how  now,  Cecil,"  he 
continued,  as  his  officer  reappeared  from  the  cottage  —  "have 
you  found  him  ?" 

**  We  have  searched  thoroughly  from  the  roof  to  the  cel 
lar,  and  there  is  no  one  in  the  place,"  answered  the  young 
soldier.  "  It  must  be  as  they  say  ;  they  must  have  escaped  by 
sea." 

"  I  fancy  not.  There  is  no  cause  to  make  it  likely.  They 
could  not  have  heard  aught  of  our  intentions.  No,  no  !  they 
are  hidden  somewhere.  Some  secret  closet  in  the  walls ! 
Some  cunning  hole,  I  doubt  not ;  but  we  will  have  them  out 
ere  long,  I  warrant  me.  Here,  lance-pesade,  take  two  of  your 
men  and  set  fire  to  the  house  in  a  dozen  places,  with  the 
matches  of  your  pieces.  The  rats  shall  be  smoked  out,  or 
roasted  in  their  holes  !" 

"  No  !  no  !  you  will  not,  you  can  not,  you  dare  riot  be  so 
cruel!"  exclaimed  the  mother  of  the  family,  half  frantic  from 
terror  and  despair.  But  Ruth  spoke  not,  for  she  judged,  and 
judged  rightly,  that  to  speak  were  but  a  waste  of  words. 

"  Will  I  not  ?  dare  I  not  ?"  answered  the  tyrant,  looking  her 
full  in  the  eye,  with  cold  insolence,  "  that  you  shall  soon  see. 
And  you,  sirrah  !"  he  added,  turning  short  to  the  subaltern, 
who  was  hesitating,  scarcely  able  to  believe  that  the  governor 
was  in  earnest,  "  to  your  duty !  Set  it  on  fire  !" 

The  man  moved  away,  reluctantly,  to  do  the  bidding  of  his 
commander,  with  that  stern  obedience  to  discipline,  which  has 
in  all  ages  been  so  especially  characteristic  of  the  English 
soldier.  But,  as  he  did  so,  Sir  Henry  Cecil  took  two  steps 

IV. 


110  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

forward,  and  addressed  Andross  firmly,  but  at  the  same  time 
respectfully. 

"  May  I  ask  you,  Sir  Edmund,  have  you  commission  to  do 
this  ?  Martial  law  has  not  been  proclaimed,  I  think,  in  the 
province." 

"  You  may  ask,  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  any  absurd  and  useless 
question  you  may  think  fit ;  but  it  does  not  follow  that  I  will 
answer  them.  To  this,  however,  I  will  reply  thus  —  ample 
commission !" 

"  And  may  I  ask  to  see  it  ?" 

"  It  is  this"  replied  the  governor,  striking  his  hand  on  the 
hilt  of  his  sword,  "  will  you  question  it,  Sir  Henry  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Cecil,  "  but  I  will  no  longer  wear  this" 
and,  as  he  spoke,  he  unsheathed  his  own  sword,  kissed  the 
bright  blade,  and  then  snapping  it  across  his  knee,  flung  the 
fragments  over  the  cliff  into  the  rolling  surf.  Then,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  he  unbuckled  the  bright  scarf,  which  dis 
tinguished  the  governor's  guardrnen,  and,  before  Sir  Edmund 
had  time  to  speak,  flung  it  with  the  empty  scabbard  on  the 
green  sward  at  his  feet,  saying,  "  I  resign  my  commission,  sir 
—  the  king  has  lost  a  soldier." 

"  And  gained,  I  suppose,  a  rebel !"  retorted  the  other,  with 
a  sneer.  "  Your  resignation  is  accepted,  sir.  The  privy  coun 
cil  shall  be  informed  of  this." 

"  They  shall,  upon  my  honor  !"  answered  the  gallant  young 
man.  "  And  now,  Sir  Edmund,  I  will  request  you  to  remem 
ber  that  I  am  no  longer  your  inferior ;  but  your  equal,  as  an 
English  gentleman,  of  rank  higher  than  your  own." 

The  governor  doffed  his  plumed  hat  and  bowed  with  ironi 
cal  humility. 

"  I  bow,"  he  said,  "  to  the  higher  rank  !  which,  however,  I 
suspect  will  be  abridged  a  little,  when  the  king  hears  of  this. 
But  enough  !  I  will  brook  no  insolence,  hear  no  remonstrance, 


THE    WRONG.  Ill 

Now,  sirrah,  lance-pesade,  bestir  yourself.  That  hut  is  not 
afire,  and  by  the  God  who  made  me !  1  stir  not  one  step 
hence  until  its  roof-tree  lie  upon  its  hearth-stone  in  one  heap 
of  ashes.  Bestir  yourselves,  knaves,  or  you  shall  taste  the 
pickets,  or  take  a  ride  upon  the  wooden-horse  !  Fire  it,  I  say, 
fire  it,  at  each  of  the  four  corners !  It  shall  house  no  more 
rebels." 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE    WRONG. 

"  Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?" 

AUTHORITY  is  a  strange  touch-stone  whereby  to  test  man's 
equanimity ;  a  marvellous  changer  of  man's  heart.  Many  a 
one,  who  in  an  humble  sphere  has  earned  and  merited  opinions, 
has  given  promise  of  great  things  in  future,  has  proved  himself 
kind,  noble,  equal  minded,  when  tried  in  the  furnace  of  acquired 
rank,  and  power  over  his  fellows,  has  turned  out  in  the  end  to 
be  but  of  base  metal  after  all.  Many  a  nobler,  deeper  spirit, 
which,  for  a  while  depressed  by  low  circumstances,  may  have 
caught  some  stain  from  the  base  things  around  it,  have  conde 
scended  to  some  acts  unworthy  of  its  natural  tendencies,  when 
suddenly  uplifted  to  its  proper  sphere,  has  cast  away  all  the 
toils  on  the  instant,  has  emerged  from  all  the  unworthiness, 
and  shown  the  intrinsic  difference  between  the  "  dust  that  is  a 
little  gilt,"  and  the  true  "  gilt  o'erdusted." 

But  this,  the  latter  change  is,  as  I  said,  peculiar  to  the  great 
er,  the  nobler,  and  the  purer  minds  of  men  ;  and  is  perhaps  as 
rare,  as  the  former  alteration  is  of  frequent  occurrence.  It 
would  seem  very  wonderful,  could  anything  seem  wonderful 


112  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

which  we  see  almost,  daily,  that  the  possession  of  power  to 
afflict,  to  oppress,  to  torment  others,  should  beget  the  desire  to 
do  so.  Yet,  from  the  petty  pelting  Dogberry  of  some  small 
village,  to  the  mighty  Kaisar  on  his  imperial  throne,  how 
often  do  we  see  this  truth,  how  seldom  the  converse  exem 
plified. 

Again  it  would  seem  strange,  did  not  its  commonness  make 
it  familiar,  that  greatness  should  sit  more  lightly  upon  him  who 
has  inherited  it  all  untoiled  for,  and  should  by  him  be  wielded 
with  far  less  oppressiveness  toward  the  inferior ;  than  by  the 
lowly  born,  who  has  struggled  upward  painfully,  and  at  length 
won  unwonted  power.  The  task-master,  who  was  a  slave  of 
old  himself,  is  the  most  merciless  oppressor  of  the  class  from 
which  he  was  emancipated  yesterday.  The  plebeian  magistrate 
is  he,  who  has  the  least  compassion  for  the  sorrows,  the  least 
indulgence  for  the  offences  of  the  poor  plebeian.  The  rich 
burgher,  who  once  raked  the  kennels  for  a  base  meal,  is  he 
who  least  frequently  unbuckles  his  fat  purse  to  aid  his  starving 
neighbor.  The  baseness,  that  is  native  to  their  souls,  is  but 
the  more  apparent  in  the  altered  circumstances.  It  is  not  that 
the  soul  is  changed  for  the  worse  within,  but  that  the  shell 
without  is  unduly  elevated. 

The  heart  and  nature  of  the  beggar  is  there  still ;  clad  in  the 
garb  of  the  noble  it  is  true,  yet  still  beggarly  and  base.  And 
it  may  be  regarded  as  almost  a  universal  rule,  that  he  who 
tramples  the  most  heavily  on  his  inferior,  crouches  the  most 
abjectly  before  the  superior. 

Sir  Edmund  Andross  had  achieved  greatness. 

Sir  Henry  Cecil  was  born  wealthy,  powerful,  and  noble. 

Sir  Edmund  Andross  had  known  want,  scorn,  suffering,  hu 
miliation.  By  dint  of  some  great  qualities,  assisted  —  alas! 
that  I  should  say,  assisted — by  some  very  base  ones,  he  had 
emerged  from  the  slough  to  glitter  in  the  sunshine.  But  he 


THE    WRONG.  113 

had  carried  up  with  him  the  rank  odor  of  the  mire,  to  fester 
and  become  more  offensive  in  the  noonday  lustre. 

Sir  Henry  Cecil  had  been  lapped  in  luxury  from  his  cradle 
upward ;  he  had  known  from  his  infancy  nothing  but  care  and 
kindness,  pleasure,  and  wealth,  and  prosperity.  Nothing  mean 
had  come  near  to  him  ;  no  small  degrading  wants,  no  spirit- 
galling  scorn,  no  soul-degrading  humiliations.  All  his  associ 
ations  had  been  with  the  good,  the  beautiful,  the  noble,  and  the 
true.  And  of  these  two  men  the  weak  world  would  judge, 
that  he  who  had  suffered  most,  would  most  sympathize  with 
the  suffering  ;  that  he  whose  lot  had  been  ever  raised  above 
the  storms  of  adversity,  would  pitilessly  see  these  storms  burst 
on  the  heads  of  others  ;  that  he  who  had  known  humiliation 
would  be  humble — he  who  had  known  power  and  pride  only, 
would  by  his  very  power  be  made  proud. 

The  world  would  assert  that  this  is  truth  and  nature.  I  say 
that  it  is  neither  natural  nor  true  ! 

The  humblest  man,  who  ever  trod  the  earth,  was  he  who 
had  laid  aside  the  infinite  might,  and  majesty,  and  glory  of  the 
godhead  in  order  to  become  "the  man  of  sorrows."  Is  there 
in  that  brief  recollection,  no  strong  lesson  ?  I  can  conceive 
no  spectacle  more  pleasing  to  the  eyes  of  angels,  those  blessed 
ministers  who  watch  ever  fondly  over  man's  changeful  course, 
hailing  his  least  good  deed  with  smiles  of  heavenly  radiance, 
washing  his  darkest  acts  with  tears  of  celestial  sorrow  —  I  can 
conceive,  I  say,  no  spectacle  so  pleasing  to  the  eyes  of  those 
pure  beings,  as  the  great  man  bearing  his  greatness  meekly  ; 
using  his  delegated  powers  only  to  mitigate  the  sorrows  which 
he  has  never  known  ;  spreading  his  wealth  about  him,  only  to 
bless  the  poor  and  needy ;  and  yet  cheering  their  hearts  more 
by  his  kindly  voice  and  gentle  air,  than  by  the  bounty  of  his 
hand. 

I  can  conceive  none  more  detestable  than  that  of  the  self- 
K* 


114  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

made,  low-born  magnate,  revelling  in  his  brief  authority,  using 
his  greatness  only  to  wound,  his  wealth  only  to  tantalize,  his 
power  only  to  trample  under  foot  the  wretched  worms,  of  whom 
but  yesterday  he  was  the  brother.  And  such,  in  many  re 
spects,  as  the  latter  picture,  was  Sir  Edmund  Andross.  In 
almost  all,  such  as  the  former,  Sir  Henry  Cecil. 

And  yet,  alas  !  for  poor  human  nature  that  it  is  ever  so,  the 
virtues  of  the  one  were  no  more  without  their  alloy  of  selfish 
ness,  than  the  vices  of  the  other  without  their  palliation.  A 
gentle  nature,  and  the  pleasure  which  it  gave  him  to  do  good, 
were  perhaps  greater  inducements  to  the  virtues  of  Henry  Cecil, 
than  any  settled  principle,  or  determined  sense  of  duty.  And 
a  quick  temper,  and  a  rebellious  pride  toward  his  superiors, 
marred  something  of  the  loveliness  of  his  demeanor  toward 
those  below  him. 

Of  Andross  too  it  must  be  said,  that  his  oppressive  temper, 
his  crushing  and  tyrannic  pride,  were  not  so  much  the  results 
of  a  malicious  or  unfeeling  heart,  still  less  of  any  deliberate  in 
tention  to  be  cruel,  as  of  a  nature  hardened  and  embittered  by 
wrongs  endured  early,  when  the  soul  is  as  plastic  to  evil  as  to 
good  ;  and  of  a  false  black  estimate  of  the  lower  classes,  drawn 
from  the  baseness  of  the  tools  whom  he  had  found  occasion  to 
employ,  and  the  base  uses  to  which  he  had  stooped  himself,  in 
winning  his  way  to  eminence.  Bad  as  he  was  therefore,  and 
cruel  as  he  showed  himself  in  this  instance,  neither  the  base 
ness  nor  the  cruelty  was  deliberate  or  committed  from  the 
love  of  cruelty ;  though  it  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  either 
was  accidental. 

A  stanch  and  thorough-going  loyalist,  both  from  sincere 
opinion  and  from  gratitude  to  the  king  his  patron,  a  bitter  hater 
from  conviction,  of  that  independent  democratic  spirit,  which 
having  burned  itself  out  in  England  during  the  great  civil  war 
of  1642,  had  taken  firm  root  in  the  soil  of  America;  and  as 


THE    WRONG.  115 

bitter  a  hater  of  the  canting  puritanical  spirit,  which  accompa 
nied  it,  Andross  believed  it  really  to  be  his  duty  to  spare  no 
means  of  crushing  and  eradicating  both  the  latter  wherever  he 
should  find  them. 

The  character  and  principles  of  the  man,  whom  he  had  that 
day  gone  out  to  arrest,  were  well  known  to  him  ;  and  he  looked 
upon  Merciful  Whalley,  and  looked  upon  him  justly,  as  a  dark 
bad  man,  and  a  dangerous  subject.  His  object  in  striking  at 
this  man  was  not  merely  the  seizure  of  a  regicide,  and  the 
punishment  of  those  who  resetted  him.  Had  it  been  nothing 
more,  he  would  have  left  the  execution  of  the  task  to  the  ordi 
nary  servants  of  justice. 

But  the  truth  is,  that  he  was  well-informed  of  the  existence, 
in  the  Bay  Province,  of  a  strong  and  growing  party  opposed 
to  the  extension  of  the  royal  prerogatives,  and  devoted  to  the 
propagation  and  establishment  of  civil  liberty  —  that  he  sus 
pected  a  direct  conspiracy  to  be  in  progress,  for  the  overthrow 
of  the  constituted  government ;  and  more  than  suspected  Mer 
ciful  Whalley  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  it.  In  this  view  of  the 
subject,  he  had  determined,  by  seizing  the  father  and  the  son, 
to  strike  a  deep  blow  at  the  roots  of  the  conspiracy,  to  make 
a  terrible  example  ;  to  deprive  the  plot  of  its  most  formidable 
leader ;  and  to  spread  terror  far  and  wide  through  the  hearts 
of  the  disaffected. 

Frustrated  utterly  in  this  intention  by  the  flight  of  the  Puri 
tans,  perceiving  that  there  must  be  treason  at  his  own  council 
board,  and  that  his  designs  were  made  known  to  the  conspira 
tors,  and  anticipated  by  them,  his  anger  knew  no  bounds.  But 
.it  was  a  cool,  calculating,  and  politic  anger,  aiming  as  much  at 
future  ends,  as  at  the  gratification  of  present  vengeance. 
While  this  feeling  was  at  work  in  his  brain,  instigating  him  to 
the  perpetration  of  some  great  act  of  cruelty,  which  he  would 
have  called  a  great  example,  two  other  furious  passions  were 


116  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

added  to  that  which  was  already  strong  within  him  unto  evil. 
An  ardent  admirer  of  beauty  in  the  other  sex,  a  fierce  disso 
lute  licentious  man,  accustomed  to  gratify  every  taste  how  illicit 
soever,  and  owing  to  his  position,  having  been  hitherto  seldom 
thwarted,  he  had  cast  almost  instantly  the  eyes  of  unholy  and 
impure  admiration,  on  the  beautiful  face  and  voluptuous  form 
of  Ruth  Whalley.  The  very  calmness  of  her  unaffected  mod 
esty,  the  unquestionable  innocence  of  the  fair  young  girl,  joined 
to  the  freedom  of  her  manner,  and  the  frank  artlessness  of  her 
speech,  made  the  more  vehement  impression  on  his  fancy  or 
his  senses,  that  he  was  little  used  to  anything  of  female  man 
ners  beyond  the  light  license  of  the  ladies  who  frequented 
the  courts  of  the  two  last  of  the  unhappy  Stuarts.  He  had 
been  turning  it  already  over  in  his  mind,  while  he  was  chiefly 
occupied  with  other  matters,  how  he  should  gain  possession 
of  that  sweet  girl's  affections,  or,  if  that  might  not  be,  of  her 
person  ;  when  the  demeanor  of  Cecil,  appearing  to  indicate 
some  opposition  to  his  will,  perhaps  some  anticipation  of  his 
views,  decided  him  :  and  he  resolved  at  once  upon  his  course 
of  action. 

"  Fire  it,  I  say!  Fire  it  at  each  of  the  four  corners  !  —  It 
shall  house  no  more  rebels  !" 

And  ruthlessly  was  that  ruthless  order  obeyed. 

Not  a  moment  was  given  to  the  hapless  women,  not  so  much 
even  as  to  bring  out  raiment,  or  food,  or  any  of  those  little 
articles,  the  household  gods  of  the  affections  which  may  be 
found  in  every  household. 

The  domestic  animals,  the  dog  and  the  kittens  were  driven 
forth  by  the  soldiers,  more  merciful  than  their  commander ; 
and  then  the  work  of  destruction  was  commenced,  and  carried 
to  a  close  with  as  little  of  delay  as  of  mercy. 

The  doors  were  dashed  off  their  hinges  ;  arid  of  these  and 
the  furniture  a  pile  was  made  in  the  centre  of  the  kitchen, 


THE    WRONG.  117 

with  the  addition  of  dry  straw  and  light  wood  ;  fire  was  set  to 
this,  and  to  the  bark-covered  roof,  as  well  as  to  the  pillars  of 
the  rustic  porches,  and  to  the  wooden  walls  in  a  dozen  differ 
ent  places.  This  done,  the  soldiers  fell  back,  carrying  their 
prisoners  with  them,  close  to  the  margin  of  the  cliffs,  and  stood 
with  their  arms  folded,  leaning  upon  their  matchlocks,  and 
watching  the  progress  of  the  conflagration. 

It  was  a  terrible  and  lamentable  sight,  rendered  more 
lamentable  yet  by  the  pale  faces  and  agonized  demeanor  of  the 
wretched  spectators,  compelled  to  witness  thus  the  destruction 
of  their  humble  home. 

The  mother  had  fallen  on  her  knees  upon  the  greensward, 
and  clasping  her  little  daughter  to  her  cold  bosom,  was  gazing 
with  tearless  and  stony  eyes,  speechless,  breathless,  and  as  it 
would  appear  from  that  fixed,  stupid  stare,  nearly  senseless, 
upon  the  progress  of  the  ruin. 

Ruth  stood  beside  her,  fearless  indeed,  and  calm,  but  as  pale 
as  ashes  ;  her  two  younger  brothers  clinging,  in  terror  of  what 
should  ensue,  to  the  skirts  of  her  dress.  Once,  her  full,  quiet 
eye  met  that  of  Andross  with  a  reproachful,  deep  expression, 
which,  dauntless  as  he  was,  he  could  not  brook  ;  but,  for  the 
most  part,  it  dwelt  steadily  upon  the  burning  walls  of  the  only 
home  she  remembered. 

The  face  of  Gideon  was  flushed  fiery  red  with  rage  ;  he 
had  bit  his  lip  till  the  blood  trickled  down  his  beardless  chin ; 
his  hands  were  clenched,  and  the  quivering  of  all  his  limbs 
betrayed  the  violence  of  the  passion,  which  he  controlled  in 
the  dread  only  of  calling  down  worse  wrong  upon  the  helpless 
women.  The  Indian  girl,  scarce  comprehending  all  that  had 
passed,  gazed  with  round  eyes  of  wonder  from  face  to  face  ; 
until  the  flames  burst  forth  from  the  roof,  the  door,  the  win 
dows  of  that  house,  which  had  been  to  her  only  a  prison  and 
a  place  of  torture 


118  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

Then  clasping  her  hands  wildly,  while  a  quick  fire  flashed 
from  her  eyes,  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  loud,  clear,  thrilling  laugh 
ter,  so  joyous  and  triumphant,  that  it  struck  terror  to  the  hearts 
of  the  stout  soldiers. 

i  "  Nevermore  !"  she  exclaimed  — "  Never  more  to  be  a  slave 
f there  !  Never  more  to  be  bound  and  beaten  like  a  dog! 
i  —  never,  never  more !"  and  she  leaped  up  from  the  ground,  on 
which  she  had  been  sitting,  and  set  up  a  long-drawn  and  sav 
age  yell  of  triumph. 

Excited  by  this  fearful  outcry,  and  conscious  as  it  seemed 
of  the  calamity,  the  house-dog  raised  his  nose  into  the  air,  and 
after  snuffing  the  atmosphere  eagerly  for  a  moment  uttered  a 
long-protracted  howl,  inexpressibly  wild  and  melancholy, 
which  was,  however,  brought  to  a  quick  conclusion  by  a  blow 
from  the  sheathed  broadsword  of  the  lance-pesade,  converting 
it  into  a  sharp  yelp  of  pain. 

Just  as  this  clamor  ceased,  there  arose  a  fresh  sound,  stran 
ger,  and  if  it  were  possible,  more  awful. 

It  was  a  deep,  hoarse,  quavering  groan,  twice,  thrice  re 
peated —  a  harsh,  guttural,  hollow  sound,  full,  as  it  seemed,  of 
physical  and  mental  anguish. 

Every  one  started,  and  looked  in  his  neighbor's  face,  and 
two  or  three  of  the  soldiers  threw  up  their  matchlocks,  and  put 
themselves  in  readiness  for  action. 

There  was  a  minute  of  breathless  silence ;  all  listening  in 
an  agony  of  expectation  to  hear,  if  it  might  be  repeated.  But 
all  was  silence. 

"  In  God's  name,  what  was  that?"  cried  Andross,  at  length, 
his  lips  white  and  trembling  with  dismay. 

But  none  made  answer  to  him. 

"  It  came  not  from  the  burning  building  1  Did  it  ?  Speak  ! 
speak,  Sir  Henry  Cecil !  There  can  be  no  one  within  !" 

"  Certainly  it  did  not,"  replied  the  young  man,  forgetting  his 


THE    WRONG.  119 

indignation  at  the  late  insolence  of  Andross,  in  sympathy  with 
his  remorseful  terrors.  "  There  is  no  one  within  ;  of  that  I  am 
certain.  It  seemed  to  me,  that  it  came  from  the  summit  of 
yon  tall  cliff  to  the  seaward.'* 

Again  the  Indian  girl's  eyes  flashed  in  triumph,  again  she 
clapped  her  hands,  and  burst  into  her  wild  laugh. 

"  Tituba  knows  !"  she  cried.  "  Tituba  knows  !  she  has 
heard  it  before !"  and  again  she  concluded  her  sentence,  with 
that  long  piercing  yell. 

As  quick  as  thought  Ruth  Whalley  turned  the  light  of  her 
gentle  eye  on  the  fierce  savage,  and  her  frame  seemed  to  col 
lapse  beneath  its  influence,  and  she  crouched  down  to  the 
ground  again  with  a  low  wailing  murmur. 

"  What  was  it,  then  ?  speak,  wench !"  cried  Sir  Edmund, 
scarcely  remarking  then,  in  his  eagerness,  though  afterward 
remembered,  what  Cecil  had  perceived,  the  gesture  of  the 
maiden  and  its  effects  on  the  child  of  the  forest.  "  What  was 
it,  that  strange  sound  ?" 

"  The  white  man's  devil !"  answered  the  Indian.  "  If  there 
be  any  devil  worse  than  the  white  man." 

At  the  first  words,  a  shudder  of  superstitious  awe  ran  through 
the  rude  soldiers  ;  and  the  buts  of  their  muskets  clanged  heavi 
ly  on  the  rocky  soil,  as  they  grounded  them  -by  an  involuntary 
impulse. 

"  Tush !"  said  the  governor,  coldly,  recovering  himself — 
"  it  was  but  the  groaning  of  the  timbers,  as  the  flames  started 
them,"  and  he  resumed  his  posture  of  unconcerned  observation, 
awaiting  with  folded  arms  the  result  of  the  conflagration. 

Meanwhile,  the  flames  rushed  up,  blackening  the  face  of  the 
gray  cliffs,  and  blighting  the  giant  boughs  of  the  green  pines 
which  overhung  the  cottage  ;  and  a  vast  pillar  of  white  smoke 
soared  slowly  upward  in  the  calm  atmosphere,  and  stood  there 


120  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

fixed  and  motionless,  a  ghastly  and  accusing  monument  of  man's 
cruelty. 

Fiercer  they  roared,  and  fiercer  —  and  now  beam  after  beam 
came  crashing  down  ;  and  the  cottage  was  but  a  pile  of  smo 
king  ashes  with  a  light  lambent  flame  wavering  over  it. 

Then  with  a  strange,  heart-piercing  cry  the  unhappy  moth 
er  cast  her  child  from  her  bosom,  stretched  her  arms  wide 
abroad,  and  fell,  as  if  a  bullet  had  pierced  her  heart,  flat  on 
her  face,  motionless,  and  it  seemed  lifeless. 

The  evil  deeds  of  Merciful  had  recoiled  on  the  heads  of  his 
unoffending  family ! 

The  scent  of  the  innocent  blood  was  purged  from  the  guilty 
house  by  avenging  fire  ! 

And  who  shall  say  that  it  was  not  from  Heaven  ? 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE    HOSTAGE. 
"  Be  surety  for  his  coming  with  tliy  life." 

INTTENSE  was  the  disgust  of  Sir  Henry  Cecil  at  the  illegal 
and  barbarous  actions  of  his  late  superior.  That  he  would 
have  resisted  them  is  certain,  could  he  have  done  so  with  any 
hope  of  success.  But  alone,  and  unarmed  by  his  own  hasty 
act,  what  could  he  think  to  do  against  seven  powerful  and 
well-weaponed  men  by  active  opposition. 

Remonstrance  he  had  tried,  and  that  had  proved  worse  than 
fruitless. 

He  remained  silent,  therefore,  awaiting  what  should  follow  : 
intending  at  a  future  period  to  try  what  reparation  might  be 
obtained  for  wrongs,  which  he  lacked  the  power  to  prevent. 


THE    HOSTAGE.  121 

So  fierce  was  his  concentrated  indignation,  that  his  fine 
face,  from  which  the  flush  had  now  completely  faded,  was  al 
most  as  pale  as  a  corpse,  even  at  the  lips,  which  were  com 
pressed  tightly  over  the  clinched  teeth. 

His  brows  were  bent  into  a  dark  frown,,  and  beneath  them 
his  clear  gray  eyes  shone  with  a  bright,  angry  lustre.  His 
arms  were  closely  folded  on  his  breast,  and  it  was  plain  to  see, 
by  the  convulsive  tremor  which  caused  his  clinched  fingers  to 
work  as  if  they  were  griping  the  hilt  of  sword  or  dagger,  how 
violent  was  the  mental  effort  by  which  he  restrained  himself 
from  such  fierce  outbreak. 

The  others  of  the  group  stirred  not,  with  the  exception  of 
sweet  Ruth,  who  sprang  forward  to  raise  up  and  assist  her 
mother,  and  Tituba,  who  caught  the  little  girl  in  her  arms,  al 
most  as  quickly  as  the  unhappy  woman  cast  it  from  her,  and 
soothed  it  on  her  bosom  with  one  of  those  plaintive  strains, 
half-sung,  half-murmured,  which  are  peculiar  to  the  females 
of  her  race. 

"  Mother !  look  up !  mother,  dear,  dearest  mother,"  ex 
claimed  Ruth,  as  she  lifted  her  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  wiped 
away  the  blood  which  was  trickling  from  her  nostrils  in  con 
sequence  of  the  heavy  fall.  "  Mother,  mother  !  my  God  !  she 
is  dead,  she  is  dead !  you  have  slain  her  !"  and  she  looked  up 
into  the  face  of  Andross,  with  an  expression  of  reproach  and 
pitiful  despair  that  would  have  moved  a  fiend  to  mercy. 

It  did  move  Sir  Edmund  Andross. 

He  turned  very  pale,  and  took  a  quick  step  forward  to  the 
maiden's  side,  exclaiming  — 

"  No  !  no!  she  is  not  dead  —  it  is  a  fainting  fit  only;  it  is 
terror  ;  she  will  revive  directly.  Here,  Lambert,  Martin,  stir 
yourselves,  run,  fetch  some  fresh  water,  row  back  to  the  pin 
nace,  and  bring  some  wine  and  aqua  vita." 

His  orders  were  obeyed ;  but  Ruth  who  had  shifted  her 
L  6 


122  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

mother's  head  from  her  bosom  to  her  lap,  sat  gazing  steadfastly 
on  the  glazed  eyes,  and  impassive  features,  and  on  the  drop 
of  congealed  blood  which  had  now  ceased  to  flow. 

She  never  had  seen  death  before,  yet  now  she  knew  it,  by 
a  sure  instinct ;  surer  far  than  the  experience  of  the  men  who 
had  so  often  witnessed  it,  so  often,  it  may  be,  inflicted  it,  in 
broil  or  battle. 

She  held  the  inanimate  and  unresponsive  fingers  in  her  own, 
and  felt  the  vital  warmth  fail  gradually,  and  the  flesh  contract 
and  stiffen. 

"  It  is  of  no  avail,"  she  said  calmly,  but  with  that  calmness 
which  shows  more  agony  of  soul  than  the  loudest  grief.  "  She 
is  dead  !  you  have  slain  her  !  Mother  !  mother  !  poor,  patient, 
unrepining,  kind,  dear  mother  !  a  sad  life  yours  has  been,  and 
a  sad  end  to  it  is  this  !  Weary  and  toilsome  has  been  your 
pilgrimage  below,  uncheered  by  much  of  human  love,  unrelieved 
by  much  sympathy  or  joy  ;  but  by  the  Christian's  hope  thou 
wert  sustained,  and  in  thy  Savior's  bosom  thou  art  now  happy. 
Wo !  wo  unto  us  who  remain  behind  thee  !"  and,  overcome  at 
length,  she  bowed  her  head  into  her  hands,  and  wept  bitterly. 

No  further  movement  followed  on  the  part  of  the  bystanders, 
for  all  now  saw  that  her  words  were  indeed  true  ;  and  that  the 
shock  and  anguish  of  the  moment  had  been  too  much  for  the 
shattered  spirits  and  emaciated  frame  of  the  unhappy  wife  and 
mother. 

Only  Gideon  stepped  up  to  his  sister's  side  with  a  more 
manly  expression  on  his  face  than  it  had  ever  worn  before,  and 
manlier  feelings  in  his  heart. 

It  is  events  alone  that  ripen  character ;  and  one  short  hour 
will  sometimes  change  us  more  from  youth  to  manhood,  or 
from  strong  manhood  into  the  sere  of  life,  than  years  of  tran 
quillity  and  peace. 

The  younger  boys   crowded  round  the  corpse  of  her  who 


THE    HOSTAGE.  123 

bore  them,  with  their  young  hearts,  which  had  been  checked 
and  crushed  for  years  by  the  stern  rule  of  their  iron  father  now 
overflowing  with  a  torrent  of  strangely  blended  and  tumultuous 
sympathies. 

For  a  few  moments  Ruth  wept  silently,  but  then  by  a  mighty 
effort  mustering  her  heart,  she  laid  the  cold  head  down  on  the 
turf,  knelt  by  it,  stooped  and  kissed  the  pale  brow  and  icy  lips, 
and  said  in  a  steady  voice  — 

"Farewell!  farewell !  poor  mother,  it  will  not  be  for  long 
that  I  say  fare  you  well !' 

Then  she  arose  to  her  fulf  height,  passionless  and  cold,  and 
confronted  Sir  Edmund  Andross. 

"  Man,"  she  said  slowly  and  impressively,  "  thou  hast  mur 
dered  her  —  her,  who  never  wronged  any  living  thing,  by 
thought,  word,  or  deed  —  the  meekest,  mildest,  most  affec 
tionate  of  beings.  As  surely  as  if  thou  hadst  stricken  her 
with  the  sword's  edge  hast  thou  murdered  her !  Man  may  not 
call  it  murder — man  may  not  judge  nor  avenge  it !  Therefore 
to  man  do  I  not  appeal,  but  to  God  !  He  hath  seen — he  hath 
judged  —  and  in  his  own  good  time  he  shall  avenge  !  To  this 
tribunal,  therefore,  I  appeal !  Before  this  awful  judgment-seat 
I  summon  thee  to  meet  the  spirit  of  thy  victim,  and  that  right 
early !" 

"  Brothers,"  she  added,  catching  Gideon's  hand,  with  her 
right  hand,  and  stretching  out  her  left  over  the  heads  of  the 
two  younger,  "  brothers,  look  !  there  she  lies,  who  bore,  who 
nursed,  who  loved  us  all,  with  that  love  which  none  but  a 
mother's  heart  can  feel  —  there  she  lies,  from  whose  poor,  pale 
face  we  never  have  met  aught  but  kind  and  gentle  smiles  — 
from  whose  dear  lips,  whatever  we  have  merited,  we  never 
have  heard  aught  but  soft  and  loving  words.  That  face  will 
never  smile  on  us  again,  those  lips  will  never  speak  to  us.  She 
is  lost  to  us  here  for  ever.  Look  !"  she  continued,  turning  to- 


124  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

ward  Andross,  with  a  sterner  manner,  though  still  tranquil. 
"  Look  !  there  he  stands  who  slew  her.  Look  on  him  !  Mark 
him  narrowly  !  Observe  him,  that  ye  forget  him  not !  Broth 
ers,  ye  are  now  boys,  but,  with  God's  blessing,  one  day  ye 
shall  be  men !  I  do  not  say  avenge  her,  for  vengeance  is  the 
Lord's  ;  he  shall  repay !  But  I  say,  mark  him,  for  He  hath 
said  that  he  will  avenge  the  innocent  blood,  of  whose  sayings, 
it  is  written,  that  "  Heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away,  but  my 
words  shall  not  pass  away  !"  Brothers,  I  have  spoken.  "  The 
Lord  gave,  the  Lord  hath  taken  away,  blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord !" 

But  as  she  ceased  to  speak,  Gideon  stretched  out  both  hands 
over  the  body,  and  cried  in  a  shrill,  sad  voice  : — 

"  Hear  me,  Almighty !  Hear  me,  thou  spirit  of  the  blessed 
dead !  for  here,  henceforth  for  ever,  I  devote  myself,  body  and 
soul ;  here  I  devote  my  brothers  also,  when  they  come  to  years 
of  manhood,  to  be  thy  avengers !  Man  of  blood  !  thou  shalt 
think  one  day  on  these  words  that  I  have  spoken  ;  for  when 
thou  liest  in  thy  blood,  and  a  bloody  death  thou  shalt  die,  I 
will  stand  by  thy  side  and  laugh  at  thy  death-pang !  I  swear 
it  by  Him  who  liveth  in  the  holy  heavens,  now  and  for  ever!" 

The  face  of  Andross  had  expressed  many  deep  and  change 
ful  emotions,  while  Ruth  was  speaking  —  for,  to  do  him  justice, 
he  was  both  shocked  and  grieved  at  what  had  occurred  ;  and 
felt  no  disposition  to  cavil  at  a  woman's  words  in  a  moment  so 
terrible,  in  the  horrors  of  which  he  had  moreover  been  himself 
an  unwitting  instrument.  But  now,  at  the  threatening  and  au 
dacious  words  of  the  boy,  his  cheek  burned  and  his  fierce 
temper  resumed  the  ascendency. 

"  Somewhat  too  much  of  this,"  he  said  scornfully.  "  That 
which  has  happened,  I  regret  as  much  as  any  one  can  do  ;  but 
I  am  not  answerable  for  it,  even  if  it  be  caused  by  the  perform- 
ancs  of  my  duty.  For  the  rest,  I  can  make  all  allowance  for 


THE    HOSTAGE.  125 

the  grief  of  a  daughter,  while  I  fear  not  the  vengeance  of 
Heaven,  much  less  the  impotent  revenge  of  a  puny  boy,  for 
acts  in  obedience  to  the  orders  of  my  king,  and  the  laws  of  my 
country.  But  we  must  have  no  more  of  this.  Now,  my  men, 
make  the  boat  ready,  we  will  return  to  the  pinnace." 

He  paused  uneasily,  as  if  he  had  something  more  to  say, 
and  knew  not  how  to  say  it ;  and,  absorbed  though  she  was  in 
her  great  grief,  Ruth  perceived  his  embarrassment,  and  perhaps 
unwisely,  unfortunately  beyond  a  doubt,  commented  on  it. 

"  What,  is  there  more  ?"  she  said  ;  for  even  in  her  sweet 
and  gentle  disposition  tyranny  and  the  agonies  it  had  produced 
were  awakening  a  spirit  of  rebellion.  "  What  more  of  lawless 
cruelty,  of  heaven-daring  outrage,  is  there  yet  to  be  done  ? 
Something  it  must  be  of  appalling  infamy,  or  of  atrocity  unheard, 
since  it  puts  even  thy  bronzed  tyranny  to  shame  —  what  is 
there,  I  say,  more  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  leave  behind 
you  poverty,  anguish,  ruin,  where  you  found  wealth,  content 
ment,  peace  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  left  your  foot 
prints  indelibly  stamped  in  this  once  happy  solitude,  by  death 
and  devastation  ?" 

"  Peace  !  peace  !"  whispered  Cecil,  in  a  low  kind  of  voice, 
drawing  near  to  her  ;  "  oh,  peace,  poor  maiden,  for  thine  own 
sake  —  for  the  sake  of  those  whom  thou  lovest." 

"  It  is  peace  !"  she  replied,  gazing  at  him  with  a  pitiful  look. 
"  The  peace  of  utter  desolation  !  But  once  again,  I  must 
ask,"  she  added,  turning  toward  the  governor,  "  hast  thou  more 
wrong  to  do  us  ?" 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  answer,  '  No,' "  returned  Sir  Edmund. 
His  passion  for  the  girl's  beauty,  which  had  been  forgotten  for 
the  moment,  and  his  resentment  against  Cecil,  rekindling  all  the 
worst  part  of  his  nature  at  sight  of  his  sympathy  with  her. 
"  But  duty  must  be  done,  painful  or  pleasant ;  and  my  duty  it 

IA,  after  all  the  treason  which  we  have  witnessed  here,  to  re- 
L* 


126  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

move  you  hence  as  a  hostage,  to  be  detained  until  such  time 
as  your  father  shall  surrender  himself  into  custody." 

"Great  God!  it  is  impossible!"  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands  in  agony  —  "it  is  impossible,  that  any  man  should  be 
so  barbarous  !  What !  tear  an  orphan  daughter  from  her  dead 
mother's  corpse  —  no  !  no  !  no  !"  she  sobbed  hysterically.  "  It 
is  not  so,  it  can  not  be  —  why,  who  shall  bury  her?  —  who 
shall  feed  these  ?" 

And,  as  she  spoke,  she  stretched  one  hand  toward  the  dead 
mother,  the  other  toward  the  youngest  orphans. 

"  With  that  I  have  naught  to  do  !"  he  replied  ;  and,  then 
hearing  the  brief,  bitter  curse  which  fell  from  the  lips  of  Cecil, 
he  added,  "  or  rather,  I  should  say  to  thee,  quoting  a  text  which 
thou  knowest  perchance  already,  *  Let  the  dead  bury  their 
dead  !' " 

"  Thou  art  no  man,"  she  said,  "  but  a  devil !  —  almost,  I  be 
lieve,  the  arch-fiend  himself!" 

"  Sir  Edmund  Andross,"  interposed  Henry  Cecil,  bridling 
his  wrath,  and  speaking  as  tranquilly  as  he  could,  "  if  you  have 
both  the  right  and  the  will  to  do  this  thing,  which  I  can  not  be 
lieve  ;  if  you  indeed  think  it  your  duty  to  secure  this  damsel, 
as  a  hostage,  yet  suffer  her  to  remain  here,  and  inter  her  dead  ; 
and  I  will  pledge  to  you  my  word  of  honor,  as  a  gentleman 
and  soldier,  and  a  knight-baronet,  that  I  will  be  your  warrant 
that,  this  sad  duty  done,  she  shall  surrender  herself  up  to  you, 
within  three  days  at  farthest.  We  are  not  friends,  Sir  Edmund, 
we  never  shall  be  friends,  but,  on  my  honor,  I  would  not  see 
you  do  this  thing  for  your  own  sake  ;  for,  though  a  stern  and 
a  proud  man,  I  have  never  believed  you  base  or  cruel ;  and  so 
surely  as  you  do  this,  the  world  will  deem  you  both." 

"  Have  you  done,  sir  ?"  asked  Andross  fiercely. 

"  I  have  not !"  answered  Cecil ;  "  for,  having  told  you  that 
I  am  your  enemy,  it  may  gratify  your  pride  to  see  your  enemy 


THE    HOSTAGE.  127 

a  suppliant.  I  never  bent  my  knee  to  a  created  thing  ;  I  would 
not  bend  it  to  preserve  my  life  ;  yet  I  bend  it  to  you  now,  and 
sue  you  humbly  to  accept  the  warrant  of  my  honor,  and  let  her 
tarry  here  !" 

"  Under  Sir  Henry  Cecil's  fatherly  protection,"  he  said,  with 
a  sneer. 

The  young  baronet  sprang  from  his  knee  to  his  feet ;  and 
grasped  at  the  place  where  his  sword  should  have  hung  —  it 
was  well  for  the  governor  that  it  hung  there  no  longer. 

Andross  looked  at  him  with  a  cool,  galling  smile,  and  said  — 

"  It  can  not  be,  sir.  I  refuse  even  an  enemy's  request.  If 
I  could  have  granted  it  at  all,  I  should  have  granted  it  to  the 
girl's  sorrow.  Come,  my  men,  lead  her  to  the  boat." 

But  at  this  moment  one  of  the  two  seamen,  who  had  accom 
panied  him  ashore,  an  old  white-headed  master's  mate,  but  still 
strong  and  active,  strode  out,  and  faced  the  governor. 

"  By  God  !"  he  said,  "  Sir  Edmund  Andross,  this  will  not 
go  down  here  !  On  shore,  you  may  be  governor  or  captain,  or 
whatever  else  you  please,  but  on  the  deck  of  the  Rosebud,  no 
man  is  captain  but  Dick  Foster,"  and  here  he  swore  an  amazing 
nautical  oath,  "  and  while  Dick  Foster  can  stand  up  in  his 
shoes,  that  poor  thing  shall  not  go  aboard  her  !" 

"  Shall  not  ?"  exclaimed  Andross,  furiously. 

"  Yes  !  I  said  shall  not,  and  I  say  it  again,  too,  for  all  your 
toasting-forks,  and  pop-guns,  and  laced  cassocks.  Why,  Lord 
deliver  you,  I  have  blue  jackets  enough  yonder  to  spoil  the 
hash  of  three  times  as  many  red-coats  as  you  can  count,  even 
if  the  jollies  would  stand  by  you  ;  and  that  I  do  n't  believe  they 
would  ;  for  so  poor  a  devil  as  a  jolly  is,  I  never  heard  tell  of 
one  harming  a  helpless  girl.  Do  you  understand  me  now,  Sir 
Edmund?  I  say  she  shan't  come  aboard  the  Rosebud.  So 
you  had  better  take  Master  Cecil's  warrant  for  her,  and  let  us 
be  off.  For  I  'm  sick  o'  this  work,"  and  he  wound  up  his 


128  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

speech,  as  he  had  commenced  it,  with  a  tremendous  oath,  by 
way  of  peroration. 

"  Why,  this  is  rank  mutiny  !"  cried  Andross,  perceiving  that 
it  was  doubtful  whether  he  could  reckon  on  the  support  of  his 
soldiers. 

"  Rank  mutiny  be  d  —  d  !"  the  other  replied.  "  I  am  no  man 
of  yours,  Sir  Edmund.  "  I  know  no  superior  here,  but  good 
Captain  George  of  the  Rose  frigate,  to  which  the  Rosebud  is 
a  tender ;  and  as  for  mutiny,  I  served  black  Jem  when  he 
licked  the  Mynheers  in  the  narrow  seas,  when  he  was  only 
Duke  of  York,  and  he  knows  old  Dick  Foster  too  well  to  be 
lieve  your  nonsense  about  mutiny.  However,"  he  continued, 
"mutiny  or  no  mutiny,  that  lass  don't  go  aboard  the  Rosebud 
this  day,  nor  to-morrow  neither.  That's  plain  English  !" — 

"Plain  English,  sirrah!  for  which  you  shall  answer  one 
day,"  retorted  Andross. 

"  Don't  '  sirrah'  me,  Sir  Edmund,"  answered  the  sturdy  old 
man,  laying  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  cutlass,  "  or  you  shall 
answer  for  it  now.  For,  if  you  do  it  again,  I'll  cut  your  crown 
before  you  are  five  minutes  older.'' 

Though  sick  and  sad  at  heart,  Cecil  could  not  refrain  from 
smiling  at  the  total  discomfiture  of  the  governor. 

"  You  laugh  now,  Sir  Henry,"  said  he  sharply,  as  he  saw 
the  lip  of  the  young  man  curl.  "  See  if  you  laugh,  when  my 
turn  shall  come.  Master  Foster,  you  will  repent  of  this. — 
But  now,  get  your  men  to  the  boat ;  I  will  leave  the  girl  under 
your  pledge  of  honor,  sir,  that  she  shall  be  surrendered  to  the 
proper  authority  within  three  days  at  farthest." 

"  My  word  once  spoken,  sir,"  answered  Cecil,  gravely,  "  I 
can  not  recall  it;  otherwise,  as  things  now  stand,  you  should 
have  no  promise.  Within  three  days  she  shall  be  given  up  in 
Boston,  unless  her  father  shall  surrender  himself  in  the  mean 
time." 


THE    HOSTAGE.  129 

"  Tu  ME  LA  PAGHERAI  !"*  said  Andross,  in  Italian,  with  a 
half-scornful  bow,  which  Cecil  returned,  saying,  with  a  smile, 
"  Wherever  you  please,  Sir  Edmund." 

In  ten  minutes  more,  the  men  were  all  in  the  boat,  which 
was  pulled  hastily  back,  bearing  the  governor,  chafing  like  a 
hurt  boar  at  the  resistance  and  ill-concealed  contempt  which 
he  had  encountered,  to  the  pinnace. 

Scarcely  were  they  on  board  before  her  sails  were  trimmed, 
her  grapnels  hauled  in,  and  her  canvass  filled  by  the  fresh 
merry  breeze,  which  swept  her  speedily  up  into  Boston  harbor, 
ignorant  of  the  misery  she  left  behind  her,  and  resembling 
rather  some  gay  pleasure-boat,  than  a  machine  built  by  man 
for  man's  destruction. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE    RETURN. 
"And  found  his  home  a  home  no  more." 

IT  would  be  difficult  to  discover  words,  which  should  de 
scribe  with  accuracy  the  feelings  of  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  at  find 
ing  himself  thus  left  alone  in  that  remote  and  difficultly  ap 
proached  spot,  in  the  midst  of  that  bereaved  and  mourning 
family. 

It  must  be  remembered,  that,  until  the  preceding  night  he 
had  scarce  heard  of  the  existence  of  these  people,  in  whose 
behalf  he  had  now  thrown  up  his  commission,  and  declared 
himself  an  enemy  of  the  royal  governor,  perhaps,,  it  might 
thereafter  be  assumed,  of  the  government  itself. 

*  "  You  shall  pay  me  for  this." 
6* 


130  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

He  therefore  knew  little  or  nothing  of  the  habits,  manners, 
or  sentiments  of  the  people  to  whom  he  now  stood  somewhat 
in  the  light  of  a  protector  ;  and  it  may  be  added  further,  that 
with  what  he  knew  of  them  he  felt  but  little  sympathy. 

An  ardent  lover  of  constitutional  English  freedom,  he  had 
no  common  feelings  with  the  advocates  of  democratical  equal 
ity  ;  he  was  no  believer  in  the  visionary  schemes  and  ideal 
republics  of  Harrington  and  Vane.  Earnest  himself  and  sin 
cere  in  his  belief  of  the  doctrines  of  the  English  church,  yet.  at 
the  same  time  an  advocate  of  universal  toleration,  he  could  riot 
but  view  with  dislike  and  disgust  the  stern  cold  sectaries,  who, 
flying  from  what  they  called  persecution  of  their  own  sect  at 
home,  now  persecuted  every  other  creed  with  the  bitterest  and 
most  cold-blooded  rancor. 

The  very  dialect  of  these  people,  their  dragging  the  holiest 
names  and  most  sacred  things  into  association  with  the  com 
monest  and  most  familiar  —  their  forcing  the  language  of  the 
church  or  conventicle  into  the  domestic  circle  —  their  profane 
expostulations  with  the  Deity  —  their  contempt  of  all  kind  and 
endearing  usages  —  their  prohibition  of  all  innocent  amuse 
ments —  all  these  things  were  to  him  odious  and  almost  abom 
inable. 

He  looked,  moreover,  on  the  trial  and  execution  of  King 
Charles  I.  as  a  great  crime;  and  although  he  certainly  did  not 
believe  in  the  propriety  of  dragging  frail  old  men  to  the  scaf 
fold  for  a  deed  done,  probably,  in  good  faith,  some  forty  years 
before,  he  yet  felt  not  the  least  inclination  to  be  brought  into 
contact  with  men,  whose  manners  were  as  distasteful  to  him, 
as  their  principles  were  hostile  to  his  own. 

As  a  soldier,  obedient  to  discipline,  he  would  scarcely  have 
expressed,  therefore,  his  disapprobation  of  the  steps  taken  for 
the  arrest -of  the  elder  Whalley,  even  if  he  had  felt  it  more 
strongly  than  he  did ;  and,  as  for  the  younger  Puritan,  he  cer- 


THE    RETURN.  131 

tainly  had  no  doubt  about  the  propriety  of  apprehending  him, 
not  on  account  of  the  shelter  he  had  extended  to  his  own 
father,  but  of  the  treason  which  he  was  believed  to  be  plotting 
against  the  colonial  government. 

Cecil  was,  therefore,  in  many  respects  strangely  situated. 
His  own  impulsive  temper,  joined  to  his  natural  dislike  of  all 
tyrannical  and  oppressive  measures,  had  prompted  him  to 
stand  forward  as  a  righter  of  wrong,  and  a  supporter  of  the 
oppressed,  against  legitimate  authority.  The  subsequent  vio 
lence  of  the  governor  had  led  farther  than  he  would  otherwise 
have  gone  ;  and  now  he  found  himself  committed,  as  it  were, 
to  a  line  of  conduct  which  might  ultimately  lead  him  he  scarce 
knew  whither;  and  that,  too,  in  behalf  of  the  people,  concern 
ing  whom  he  had  entertained  many  and  grave  doubts. 

It  is  very  true,  that  Cecil,  as  well  as  Sir  Edmund  Andross, 
had  been  deeply  struck  by  the  charms  of  the  fair  Puritan. 
For  he,  too,  was  an  admirer  of  female  beauty,  though  in  a 
very  different  manner  from  the  dissolute  and  licentious  gover 
nor  ;  and  her  loveliness  was  of  an  order  to  attract  and  fix  the 
admiration  of  the  coldest. 

But  in  the  difference  of  the  dispositions  and  the  principles 
of  these  two  men,  there  lay  the  clew  to  what  might  almost 
make  a  history. 

For  as  Andross,  whose  devotion  to  the  sex  was  wholly  sen 
sual  and  physical,  cared  nothing  for  the  mind,  the  accomplish 
ments,  the  heart  of  the  woman  on  whom  he  cast  the  eyes  of 
passion;  so  Cecil,  in  whose  estimation  the  beauteous  body 
was  but  the  casket  of  a  soul,  and  to  be  loved  and  treasured,  or 
despised  and  cast  aside,  according  as  that  soul  was  beautiful 
or  not,  cast  but  a  passing  glance  upon  mere  charms  of  the 
person,  and  was  no  more  capable  of  falling,  as  it  is  called,  in 
love  with  a  fair  complexion,  bright  eyes,  fine  hair,  and  a  volup 
tuous  figure,  than  of  adoring  a  waxen  puppet. 


132  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

There  was  nothing,  therefore,  of  love,  even  in  its  incipient 
stages,  in  the  feeling  which  had  induced  him  to  step  forward 
to  the  protection  of  Ruth  Whalley.  It  was  solely  his  hatred 
of  all  oppression,  and  his  sympathy  with  all  the  oppressed, 
that  had  prompted  him  to  the  act,  by  which  he  had  been  ap 
parently  divorced  from  his  countrymen. 

And  scarcely  was  the  pinnace  under  way,  before  he  began 
to  envisage  the  extreme  awkwardness  of  his  position. 

Alone,  on  an  almost  isolated  rock,  with  no  shelter  from  the 
weather,  and,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  no  means  of  providing 
any  ;  surrounded  by  weak  women,  and  children  under  age, 
with  the  exception  of  Gideon,  who  now,  that  the  momentary 
excitement  had  passed  away,  appeared  completely  paralyzed 
by  the  terrible  occurrences  of  the  last  hour,  what  was  he  to  do, 
what  to  devise,  even  for  the  present  ? 

Then  for  the  future  :  he  had  pledged  his  honor  that  this 
girl  should  be  yielded  up  on  the  third  day  as  a  hostage.  And 
now,  that  the  enthusiasm  and  indignation  which  had  urged 
him  to  give  that  pledge  had  faded,  he  could  not  but  apprehend 
some  difficulty  in  the  performance  of  his  promise. 

Especially,  in  case  the  father  should  return,  armed  per 
haps,  and  accompanied  by  his  neighbors,  to  oppose  her  sur 
render. 

While  he  was  musing  thus,  gazing  with  vacant  eyes  over 
the  rolling  waves,  across  which  the  little  bark  was  bounding 
with  his  comrades  homeward,  the  young  girl,  who  perhaps  in 
some  sort  read  his  thoughts,  drew  near  and  addressed  him 
timidly. 

"  You  have  saved  us,"  she  said  in  a  low,  soft  voice  ;  "  and 
now  you  regret  it." 

"  Oh  !  no  !"  he  answered.  "  It  is  not  that,  indeed.  I  have 
done  nothing  but  what,  as  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian,  I  was 
bound  to  do.  I  do  not,  therefore,  in  the  least  regret  it.  But 


THE    RETURN.  133 

surely,  in  all  this,  there  is  enough  of  difficulty  to  make  me 
grave  and  thoughtful.'' 

"  Difficulty?"  she  replied,  "  difficulty  —  I  do  not  understand 
you !"  and  then,  as  if  a  light  broke  suddenly  upon  her  — 
"  What !"  she  exclaimed,  "  can  you  imagine,  for  a  moment, 
that  I  would  break  the  promise  you  so  nobly  made  for  me  ?" 

"  Not  you,"  he  answered,  looking  into  her  soft  dove-love 
eyes,  with  more  of  admiration  than  he  had  hitherto  manifested, 
"  Oh,  no  !  not  you  ;  but  perhaps — " 

"  My  father  !"  she  interrupted  him.  "  Well ;  and  even  if  he 
should  oppose  it,  do  you  believe  I  would  obey  him,  rather  than 
the  laws  of  truth,  of  gratitude,  of  honesty  ?  Oh !  no,  sir ; 
you  do  not  know  Ruth  Whalley." 

"  I  have  scarce  had  time  to  do  so,"  he  answered,  with  a  grave 
smile  ;  "  yet  I  think  that  I  have  not,  at  least,  much  misjudged 
you.  But  there  are  other  things  which  disturbed  me.  We 
are  alone  on  this  rock,  without  house  or  any  shelter,  without 
food,  drink,  fuel,  or  change  of  raiment  —  without  any  means, 
in  short,  for  the  support  of  the  living,  or  the  — "  and  he  paused 
abruptly,  fearful  of  shocking  her  ;  but  she  took  up  the  sentence 
where  he  broke  off, 

"The  burial  of  the  dead!  —  it  is  true  !  it  is  true  !  Mother, 
dear  mother,  and  had  I  even  for  a  moment  forgotten  you  ?" 
and,  with  the  words,  she  threw  herself  at  her  full  length  on 
the  greensward,  beside  the  body,  and  clasping  it  with  both  her 
arms,  buried  her  face  in  the  cold  bosom,  and  wept  bitterly. 

Cecil  stood  still,  and  looked  on  in  silence,  for  he  knew  well, 
young  as  he  was,  that  grief  must  have  its  course,  and  that  it 
is  neither  wise  nor  kind  to  oppose  its  current. 

But  while  she  lay  there,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  burst, 
the  Indian  girl  crept  up  to  Cecil's  side,  and  pointing  with  a 
tremulous  gesture,  and  a  face  almost  distorted  with  terror,  to 
ward  the  sea,  exclaimed, 
M 


134  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

"  See,  he  comes  !  it  is  Merciful !  Save  Tituba,  young  sol 
dier,  save  her  from  Merciful !" 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  it  occurred  to  the  young  man,  that 
he  might  himself  stand  in  need  of  defence,  in  the  first  moments 
of  the  Puritan's  despair  and  fury !  He  was  not  one,  however, 
to  take  much  thought  of  himself,  when  others  called  for  assist 
ance  ;  and,  though  he  might  feel  a  passing  regret  that  he  had 
broken  his  good  sword,  and  cast  it  from  him,  he  still  hastened 
to  assure  the  poor  Indian  of  his  readiness  to  protect  her. 

"  No  one  will  injure  you,  he  said,  poor  thing,  while  I  am 
present; — but  wherefore  should  you  think  he  will  harm  you? 
and  where  is  he  ?  for  I  see  him  not." 

"Merciful  flogs  Tituba,"  she  replied,  "always.  Do  good, 
or  do  evil,  still  flog  !  flog  !  If  Tituba  were  a  man,  a  chief,  as 
her  father  was,  she  would  ask  no  one  to  protect  her.  There, 
see,  there  !  over  the  port  of  the  bridge,  his  white  sail  rises 
and  falls  above  the  waters  —  so  small,  that  it  looks  like  a  sea 
gull's  wing,  but  it  is  a  broad,  canvass  sail  —  Merciful's  sail! 
He  will  be  here  soon  —  then,  young  soldier,  forget  not,  but 
save  Tituba." 

This  further  testimony  to  that,  which  he  already  more  than 
suspected,  the  brutal  harshness  of  the  Puritan's  disposition, 
went  far  to  convince  Cecil  that  he  should  have  indeed  no  easy 
part  to  play,  perhaps  no  safe  one  !  Yet  even  in  that  moment 
of  personal-  uneasiness  the  noble  youth  found  time  to  think  of 
the  horrors  which  would  meet  the  eyes  of  that  stern  man  on 
his  landing,  and  to  consider  how  to  palliate  them. 

He  approached  Ruth  cautiously,  as  she  still  lay  beside  her 
mother's  body,  although  the  convulsive  agonies  of  her  first 
t^rief  appeared  in  some  sort  to  have  abated,  and  stooping  over 
her,  said,  very  gently, 

"  Your  father  is  approaching;  my  poor  Ruth,  will  you  not 


THE    RETURN.  135 

rise  and  meet  him?  The  shock  will  be  terrible.  It  must  not 
break  thus  upon  him  all  at  once.'' 

She  arose  on  the  instant,  and  calmed  herself,  and  restrained 
her  tears,  with  a  mighty  effort.  Nay!  she  stepped  a  few 
paces  back  to  a  spot,  where  a  clear  spring  trickled  from  the 
rock,  and  washed  away  the  traces  of  her  weeping,  and  re 
arranged  her  dishevelled  hair. 

Then  walking  steadily  forward  to  the  little  esplanade  before 
the  bridge,  she  gazed  sadly  at  the  approaching  boat,  and  said, 
loudly, 

"Yes  !  it  is  he — poor  father!  This  will  be  very  grievous 
to  him — all  lost  at  one  blow  !  —  all  lost,  and  she,  too  !  —  and  it 
will  shock  him,  too,  the  more,  that  he  was  not  so  kind  to  her 
always,  as  he  should  have  been  !" 

But,  as  she  spoke,  she  started  as  if  remembering  that  those 
heard  her,  who  should  not ;  and  then,  recovering  herself, 
looked  anxiously  around  the  little  group,  apparently  in  search 
of  something.  After  a  moment  or  two,  however,  she  shook 
her  head  sorrowfully,  saying,  "  Nothing  —  no  !  there  is  nothing 
left  at  all  from  the  fire.  I  would  we  had  wherewithal  to 
cover  her." 

Sir  Henry  Cecil  answered  nothing,  but  he  unbuckled  from 
his  shoulder  the  rich  scarlet  cloak  adorned  with  a  heavy 
fringe  of  gold,  which  was  a  part  of  the  cavalier's  costume  of 
the  day,  and  disengaging  it  from  his  person,  laid  it  as  gently 
and  reverently  over  the  senseless  clay,  as  if  he  had  appre 
hended  that  a  ruder  motion  might  yet  disturb  those  dreamless 
slumbers. 

Ruth  gave  him  a  deep  glance  of  gratitude  —  one  of  those 
glances,  which  sink  at  once  into  the  heart,  and  never  are  for 
gotten —  and  then  rushed  toward  the  bridge  to  meet  her  father; 
for  the  fresh  breeze  had  swept  his  boat  in  rapidly,  while  they 
were  speaking,  and  he  was  close  at  hand  already. 


136  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

A  few  minutes,  and  he  stood  upon  the  platform,  haggard, 
and  pale,  and  ghastly ! 

That  single  night  of  agony  upon  the  deep,  joined  to  the  last 
three  hours  of  terror  and  dark  anticipation  —  for  he  had  lain  in 
his  boat  within  a  league's  distance,  his  sail  housed,  and  mark 
ed  the  movements  of  the  royal  pinnace,  and  the  smoke  hang 
ing  like  a  pall  over  his  humble  roof — had  changed  the  man's 
appearance  more  than  whole  years  of  hardship. 

What  had  been  lines  before  in  his  dark  face  were  now  deep 
furrows,  ploughed  by  the  iron  which  had  entered  into  his  soul ! 
The  hair  of  his  head  was  nearly  as  white  as  his  father's. 

Yet  was  his  hard  and  indomitable  spirit  still  untamed  ;  and 
it  was  fury,  rather,  and  the  desire  of  vengeance,  than  grief  or 
alarm,  that  contracted  his  stern  features. 

"  Ha !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  reached  the  platform,  and  saw, 
as  he  supposed,  the  full  extent  of  the  desolation,  "  Father  of 
Mercies  !  who  hath  done  this  ? — -and  wherefore  ?" 

"  The  royal  governor,''  replied  Ruth,  taking  his  hand  in  her 
own.  "  But  be  not  angry,  father  ;  for  surely  it  is  He,  who  can 
not  err,  that  hath  so  ordered  it." 

"Wherefore?  —  I  say,  wherefore?  On  what  pretext  did 
he  this  villany,  the  bloody-minded  tyrant  and  oppressor  ?  1 
say,  wherefore  ?" 

"  He  came  with  soldiers  to  arrest  you  and  my  grandfather ; 
and  finding  you  not  here,  would  not  believe  at  all  that  the  old 
man  had  gone  hence,  and  so  burned — " 

But  Merciful  waited  no  further  explanation.  His  eye  fell 
upon  the  shrinking  form  of  Tituba,  who  stood  between  himself 
and  the  body ;  and  yet  so  stunned  was  he  and  bewildered  by 
surprise  and  wrath,  that  he  neither  missed  the  presence  of  his 
wife,  nor  observed  that  of  the  young  soldier. 

At  one  bound  he  reached  her,  and  before  Cecil  could  inter 
pose,  exclaiming, 


THE    RETURN.  137 

"Harlot  and  witch!  —  This  is  thy  doing;  —  it  is  thou  hast 
betrayed  him !"  he  struck  her  a  brutal  blow  on  the  bosom,  with 
his  clenched  hand,  felling  her  to  the  earth,  ere  she  had  time 
to  cry  aloud  for  succor. 

But  not  content  with  this,  he  reared  the  heavy  musket, 
which  he  still  carried  high  above  his  head,  grasping  it  by  the 
muzzle,  and  brandished  it  to  give  full  force  to  the  blow,  ex 
claiming,  "  As  the  Lord  liveth,  thou  shalt  work  no  more  trea 
son  !" 

Sir  Henry  Cecil,  who,  in  his  anxiety  to  conceal  the  body 
of  his  wife,  had  almost  forgotten  the  words  of  the  poor  slave, 
stood  too  far  aloof  to  reach  him  in  time  to  arrest  the  stroke. 
Gideon  was  paralyzed  with  terror,  Ruth  overcome  by  so  rapid 
a  succession  of  horrors,  and  well-nigh  fainting. 

It  seemed  that  no  mortal  help  could  save  her;  but  Cecil, 
who  never  for  a  moment  lost  his  quick  wit,  or  readiness  of 
mind,  cried,  in  a  piercing  voice, 

"Hold,  madman!  Do  no  murder  in  the  presence  of  THE 
DEAD  !" 

"THE  DEAD  !"  exclaimed  the  Puritan,  aghast,  starting,  and 
holding  back  that  felon  blow. 

But  as  vSir  Henry  spoke,  he  had  stooped  down  and  removed 
the  covering  from  the  pale  face  so  calm,  so  fixed,  so  sorrowful 
in  its  last  sleep. 

"  Great  God  !  my  wife  !  my  wife !"  and,  dropping  the  mur 
derous  weapon,  he  fell  upon  his  knees  beside  her,  whom 
of  late  he  had  so  little  cherished,  and  a  whole  torrent  of  re 
morseful,  and  fond,  and  agonizing  memories  bursting  at  once 
upon  his  soul,  he  bowed  his  stern  head  on  his  hands,  mute, 
convulsed,  self-convicted,  well-nigh  choked  with  despairing 

anguish. 

M* 


138  THE    FAIR    PURITAN 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE    HUSBAND. 

"  Now  the  friend's  familiar  step  to  greet 
With  loving  laughter,  or  the  volume  sweet 
Of  those  glad  eyes." 

SIR  Henry  Cecil  had  looked  upon  grief  many  times  —  had 
been  familiar  with  mortal  misery  and  mortal  anguish  in  many 
a  varied  shape  —  yet  never  had  he  witnessed  anything  that 
could,  in  the  least  degree,  bear  comparison  with  the  even  tor 
tures  of  the  Puritan. 

It  was  not  grief  alone  at  his  bereavement ;  it  was  not  the 
shock  alone  of  seeing  her,  who  had  been  wont  to  meet  him,  on 
his  every  return  home,  with  silent  looks  of  welcome  —  the 
only  welcome  that  he  would  endure  —  outstretched  cold,  sense 
less  lifeless,  never  to  welcome  him  again. 

No  !  had  it  been  only  this,  he  could  have  borne  it.  His 
resolute  and  iron  spirit  would  stubbornly  have  struggled  up 
against  that  torture. 

No  !  no  !  it  was  the  intolerable  sense  of  wrong  which  might 
be  repented,  but  never  could  be  undone,  nor  requited  to  the 
deaf  form  which  lay  there  unconscious  of  his  present  sorrow, 
as  of  his  past  unkindness. 

He  saw  not  the  pale,  wan,  emaciated  face  of  the  dead  wife, 
but  the  gay,  lively,  glowing  features  of  the  happy  maiden,  when 
he  first  beheld  her,  the  star  of  the  village  company.  It  was 
riot  the  ashy  cheek  of  the  cold  corpse,  but  the  bright  blush  of 
the  warm,  living  bride,  that  was  set  before  the  eyes  of  his 
spirit.  It  was  not  the  icy  fingers  that  he  felt,  but  the  affec- 


THE    HUSBAND.  139 

tionate  and  twining  pressure  of  that  soft  hand,  that  timidly  en 
cased  his  own  before  God's  holy  altar. 

And  then,  as  the  vision  faded  from  his  soul,  and  he  remem 
bered  that  for  years  that  face  had  been  almost  as  much  ema 
ciated,  that  cheek  almost  as  hueless,  that  once  bright-speaking 
eye  almost  as  dim,  as  now  when  the  light  of  life  had  for  ever 
left  them  ;  as  he  reflected  that  for  years  the  spirit,  which  in 
formed  that  gentle  frame,  had  been  almost  as  dead  as  was  the 
body  that  enshrined  it  now  —  wan,  hueless,  dim,  and  dead, 
through  his  own  cold  and  gloomy  despotism  —  his  heart  smote 
him  -^  smote  him,  O  God!  how  heavily. 

The  many,  many  times,  that  he  now  felt,  as  all  at  once  they 
rushed  up,  thronging  unbidden,  palpably  upon  his  memory  — 
the  many,  many  times,  when  he  had  tucned  the  happy  smile 
upon  that  loving  face  into  a  bitter  tear,  by  his  cold  carelessness. 
The  many,  many  words,  thoughts,  deeds  of  fondness,  which 
he  had  cast  back  upon  that  tender  heart,  ungratefully  repulsed 
and  cruelly  requited. 

And  now  he  could  no  more  blight  her  smlies  with  the  chill- 
ness  of  his  wintry  eye,  nor  still  her  soft  words  with  his  gloomy 
brow  —  great  Heaven  !  what  would  he  now  have  given  to  see 
her  smile  unchecked,  to  hear  her  speak  unreproved,  the  prompt 
ings  of  her  innocent  soul ! 

What  would  he  now  have  given  to  cast  himself  at  her  feet 
and  cry,  '  I  have  sinned,  I  have  sinned  against  Heaven  and 
against  thee  —  pardon  me,  sweet  and  injured  saint,  and  take 
me  once  more  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  let  my  future  life  be 
passed  in  one  unceasing  effort  to  heal  the  wounds  made  by  my 
cruelty  ;  to  requite,  by  a  tranquil  and  serene  old  age,  the  sad 
youth,  from  which  I  ha,ve  robbed  the  flower !" 

But  ever  as  he  thought  of  this,  the  awful  words,  "  IT  is  TOO 
LATE  !"  seemed  to  roll  over  his  head  in  immortal  thunder. 


140  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

God  might  forgive  him,  it  is  true,  but  she,  whom  he  had 
wronged  so  deeply,  could  forgive  him  never ! 

Reader,  if  thou  hast  ever  possessed  a  friend,  now  lost  to 
thee  —  a  friend,  whom  thou  perchance  hast  loved  as  unselfishly 
as  poor  humanity  can  love  —  whom  thou  hast  ever  treated  with 
as  much  kindness  and  consideration  as  the  infirmities  of  the 
mortal  will  permit  —  thou  knowest  well  how  many  little  acts 
forgotten  with  the  accident  that  caused  them,  thou  wouldst 
give  worlds,  if  it  were  possible,  now  to  recall ;  how  many 
things  done  which  thou  oughtest  not  to  have  done,  how  many 
left  undone  which  thou  oughtest  to  have  done,  crowd  on  thy 
soul,  and  cry  aloud  awakening  remorse  that  must  endure  for 
ever.  Reader,  thou  canst  imagine  what  must  have  been  the 
torture  of  that  self-convicted  man,  as  he  knelt  over  the  cold 
form  of  her,  to  whom  he  had  been  the  tyrant  in  lieu  of  the  pro 
tector  ;  whom  he  had  sworn  to  love,  comfort,  honor,  and  whom, 
instead,  he  had  afflicted,  harassed,  treated  as  a  slave. 

He  did  not  weep  —  tears  are  too  genial  visitors  that  they 
should  come  to  those  hard  eyes  —  but  the  dark  sweat-drops 
rolled  as  thick  as  rain  in  a  thunder-storm  from  his  knitted 
brow  ;  and  groans,  as  harrowing  as  ever  disclosed  the  agonies 
of  a  most  guilty  soul,  burst  from  his  quivering  lips  ;  and  he 
beat  his  breast  with  his  clenched  hands  with  violence,  that 
showed  how  wholly  and  sincerely  his  mind  was  absorbed  in 
its  own  terrible  and  gloomy  recollections. 

No  one  spoke  to  him  —  no  one  consoled  him.  For  in  truth 
his  grief  was  of  a  nature  too  turbulent  and  stormy  to  render 
consolation  possible.  And,  had  it  been  possible,  there  was 
none  present  altogether  capable  of  offering  it. 

Ruth  Whalley,  who  had  endured  so  much,  and  endured  it 
so  nobly  during  that  dreadful  morning,  was  at  length  wholly 
otercome  by  the  mingled  influence  of  her  terror  and  her  grief. 
Her  habitual  dread  of  her  father's  violence,  although,  as  I  have 


THE    HUSBAND.  141 

said,  he  was  scarcely  or  never  violent  to  her,  had  rendered 
her  anxious  and  uneasy  at  the  moment  of  his  return  ;  and,  in 
stead  of  looking  forward  to  his  presence,  as  to  that  of  her  best 
friend  and  surest  comforter,  she  almost  trembled  at  his  coming. 

Ignorant,  however,  of  all  that  had  passed  on  the  previous 
night,  little  suspecting  that  her  father  was  aware  of  Tituba's 
privity  to  his  great  secret,  scarcely  indeed  suspecting,  herself, 
how  far  the  Indian  girl  was  privy  to  it,  or  what  the  secret  was, 
Ruth  was  far  from  anticipating  the  appalling  burst  of  fury, 
which  had  made  the  unhappy  man  again  almost  a  murderer. 

When  he  struck  Tituba  to  the  earth,  she  had  rushed  to  sup 
port  and  soothe  her,  and  now  while  the  old  man  was  yielding 
to  the  agonies  of  his  evil  conscience,  those  two  weak  crea 
tures  sat  weeping  in  each  other's  arms,  half-paralyzed.  For 
the  high,  gallant,  and  enduring  spirit  of  sweet  Ruth  was  for 
the  moment  weakened  so  far,  by  the  successive  horrors  she 
had  witnessed,  that  it  was  not  much  superior  now  to  the  poor 
Indian's  frail  and  benighted  intellect. 

Gideon,  ashamed  to  display  the  violence  of  his  emotions,  in 
a  stranger's  presence,  and  not  entirely  free  from  personal  fear 
of  his  father,  though  he  was  conscious  of  no  cause  for  fear, 
had  withdrawn  to  a  little  distance  from  the  scene  of  all  these 
sad  occurrences,  and  was  sitting  on  a  large  stone  at  the  foot 
of  the  pine-tree,  the  top  of  which  concealed  the  hiding-place 
of  his  grandfather,  with  his  face  buried  m  his  hands,  and  the 
tears  trickling  through  his  fingers,  as  fast  as  summer  rain-drops. 

The  two  younger  boys  sat  motionless  beside  the  corpse, 
crying  themselves,  but  striving  hard  to  smother  their  own  sobs, 
and  to  hush  the  wild  lamentations  of  their  little  sister. 

And  Cecil,  with  his  arms  folded  over  his  great  heart,  stood 
silent,  motionless  ;  watching,  with  feelings  singularly  blended 
of  disgust  and  compassion,  the  paroxysms  of  the  Puritan's  re 
morse  and  sorrow. 


142  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

Not  to  compassionate  such  sorrow,  in  any  human  being,  was 
utterly  impossible  to  such  a  heart  as  Cecil's. 

Not  to  feel  something  of  contempt  toward  one  so  help 
lessly  the  slave  of  his  own  bad  and  selfish  passions,  and 
at  the  same  time  so  fearfully  blinded  to  his  own  failings  by 
self-pride  and  the  delusion  of  self-righteousness,  was  no  less 
impossible. 

Nor  could  one  so  clear-sighted,  and  so  shrewd  to  read  char 
acter  from  the  smallest  outward  indications,  as  the  young  sol 
dier,  fail  to  perceive  that  nothing  short  of  the  consciousness 
of  great  real  cruelty  could  call  forth  such  bursts  of  remorseful 
self-accusal,  such  strange  and  almost  blasphemous  attempts  at 
self-justification,  as  that  dark  sinner  uttered  ;  now  toward  the 
senseless  corpse  at  his  feet,  now  toward  the  All-Righteous  and 
Eternal  Lord,  whom  he  addressed  in  terms  the  most  awfully 
familiar. 

Far  be  it  from  my  pen  to  attempt  even  to  record  the  crude 
extemporaneous  raving  of  ^he  fierce,  ignorant  sectarian.  It  is 
enough  that  they  shocked  the  ears  of  Cecil  more  than  the  most 
profane  oaths,  and  most  licentious  blasphemies,  he  had  ever 
heard  in  the  lascivious  courts  of  the  Stuarts,  or  in  the  turbulent 
camps  of  the  Low  Countries. 

He  was,  indeed,  on  the  point  of  interrupting  the  wild  mourn 
er  with  some  words  of  advice,  if  not  of  comfort,  when  sudden 
ly,  as  if  at  length  his  own  violence  had  exhausted  him,  he 
became  silent,  stern,  self-possessed. 

He  bowed  down  over  the  body,  pressed  his  lips  once  to  the 
cold  brow,  covered  the  face  again  reverently  with  the  scarlet 
military  mantle,  which  now,  for  the  first  time,  appeared  to  at 
tract  his  attention,  prayed  for  a  few  moments  in  silence  ;  and 
then,  rising  to  his  feet  as  quietly  and  firmly  as  if  no  storm  of 
passion  had  ever  convulsed  his  steady  features,  addressed  the 
young  soldier  abruptly,  though  not  perhaps  uncourteously  :  — 


THE  HUSBAND.  143 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  "  it  is  time  to  ask  who  you  may  be, 
and  what  brought  you  hither  ?" 

"  I  am  one  Henry  Cecil,"  answered  the  other,  "  commonly 
called  Sir  Henry,  late  captain  in  the  governor's  life-guard,  and 
with  the  governor,  I  came  hither  in  the  pinnace  Rosebud." 

"  Late  —  captain!  —  ha!"  returned  the  Puritan,  apparently 

surprised  at  his  reply.  "  And  what but  I  will  speak 

with  you  anon,"  he  added,  "  my  daughter  must  inform  me  of 
what  has  passed.  Come,  Ruth,"  he  continued,  perhaps  un 
consciously  assuming  a  gentler  tone,  than  he  had  used  for 
many  a  year,  "  poor  child,  I  am  your  only  parent  now,  come 
with  me  that  we  may  commune  together  in  private  of  the  past, 
and  take  council  for  the  future.  Come,  my  good  Ruth,  tears 
are  now  unavailing,  and  we  have  much  to  think  of  and  to  do  — 
there  will  be  time  for  grief  hereafter." 

At  the  kind  words,  the  unhappy  girl's  tears  flowed  at  first 
the  faster  ;  but  restraining  them  she  arose,  and  gave  her  hand 
to  her  father  ;  who,  with  a  gesture  of  cold  salutation  to  Sir 
Henry,  led  her  across  the  little  bridge,  and  down  the  rugged 
stairway,  to  the  sea-beach,  and  there  for  an  hour  and  upward, 
they  walked  to  and  fro  beside  the  trembling  breakers,  the 
hoarse  roar  of  the  surf  drowning  their  words  to  all  ears  save 
their  own,  the  deaf  and  pitiless  sea  the  only  witness  of  their 
sorrows. 


144  THE    FAIR    PURI7'AN 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE    ARREST. 
"  Stand,  ho  !  surrender — if  ye  stir,  ye  die." 

IT  was  near  midnight,  and  the  skies  were  black  and  star 
less.  A  huge  and  solid  pall  hung  beneath  the  firmament, 
above  the  earth  and  sea,  making  the  darkness  almost  palpable. 

The  funeral  of  Whalley's  hapless  wife  was  over. 

"  Dust  unto  dust,  and  ashes  unto  ashes,"  all  that  was  mortal 
of  her  nature  had  been  given  unto  earth  ;  although  the  sublime 
words  prescribed  by  the  ritual  of  the  English  church,  odious  to 
those  stern  fanatics,  had  not  been  said  or  sung  over  the  earthly 
tabernacle  of  the  departed  sister. 

A  long,  colloquial,  discussed  rhapsody,  half-preaching  and 
half-prayer,  had  replaced  that  beautiful  and  soothing  liturgy. 

The  feelings  of  the  survivors  had  been  harassed  almost  be 
yond  their  powers  of  endurance  by  many  a  home-thrust  allu 
sion  to  the  qualities  of  the  deceased,  and  to  all  her  relations, 
mortal  and  immortal. 

But,  like  all  other  earthly  things,  this  torture  also  had  its 
termination.  Wild  hymns  were  chanted  full  of  austere  denun 
ciation  of  the  godless,  which  term,  in  the  meaning  of  the 
chanters,  included  all  persons  inimical  to  their  peculiar  doc 
trines. 

And  then,  dark,  stern,  severe,  and  silent,  the  Calvinistic 
minister,  and  the  few  neighbors  who  had  come  to  lend  their 
aid  to  the  bereaved  and  stricken  family,  went  their  way,  cold 
and  unsympathizing  with  those  griefs  of  the  heart,  which  were 
beyond  their  callous  comprehension. 


THE    ARREST.  145 

With  the  exception  of  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  whom  chance  had 
domesticated  in  their  circle,  the  mourning  family  were  once 
again  alone. 

The  aged  regicide,  whose  hiding-place  was  now  a  secret 
no  longer,  had  been  for  a  few  hours  liberated  from  his  cell,  in 
order  to  participate  in  the  funeral  rites  of  the  daughter  of  his 
house  ;  and  his  had  been  the  wildest,  fiercest  denunciation  of 
the  sons  of  Belial ;  the  boldest  and  most  earnest  exhortation 
to  resist  the  biddings  of  the  man,  who,  like  to  Jeroboam,  the 
son  of  Nebat,  had  made  Israel  to  sin,  and  built  high  places  to 
false  gods,  and  hearkened  unto  priests  —  even  the  priests  of 
Baal. 

And  great  had  been  the  delectation  of  the  fanatical  inde 
pendent  spirits  who  made  it  their  especial  boast,  that  they  had 
founded  in  New  England  "  a  church  without  a  bishop,  a  state 
without  a  king !" 

But  when  nightfall  approached,  and  the  small  band  of  armed 
neighbors  returned  to  their  homes  along  the  iron-bound  coast, 
each  party  in  its  barge  or  sail-boat,  Merciful  had  insisted,  as  a 
measure  of  precaution,  that  his  father  should  return  for  the 
hours  of  darkness  to  the  seclusion  of  his  cavern  ;  it  having 
been  determined  that,  at  an  hour  before  daybreak,  he  should 
depart  with  his  son  and  younger  grandson,  for  a  securer  refuge 
on  the  shores  of  Connecticut. 

Nor  was  this  the  sole  step  of  precaution  that  the  dark  Puri 
tan  had  taken. 

One  of  the  giant  pine-trees  had  been  cut  down,  and  caused 
to  fall'  in  such  a  manner  that  its  head  rested  against  the  crags, 
at  about  three  fourths  of  their  elevation  above  the  little  green, 
whereon  once  stood  the  humble  dwelling  of  the  rich  fisherman 
and  farmer. 

The  branches  had  been  trimmed  partially,  so  that  the  trunk, 
with  their  aid,  presented  to  a  bold  foot  a  sort  of  rude,  extem- 
N  7 


146  THE     FAIR    PURITAN. 

poraneous  ladder,  by  which  to  arrive  nearly  at.  the  top  of  the 
rocky  wall,  which  fortified  that  narrow  amphitheatre. 

From  the  stump  of  a  tree  that  had  grown  of  old  on  the  very 
brink  of  the  precipice  above,  a  stout,  knotted  rope  had  been 
lowered  some  twenty  feet,  swinging  loosely  in  the  air,  so  that 
an  active  man  might  reach  it,  when  standing  on  the  top  of  the 
felled  pine-tree,  and  so,  perhaps,  perilously  swing  himself  to 
the  ledge  above  his  head. 

This  rude  arrangement  had  been  made  in  a  few  hours  ; 
Gideon  having  attached  the  rope  according  to  Merciful's  in 
structions,  during  his  visit  to  the  farm  on  the  main  land,  and 
the  Puritan  having  felled  and  trimmed  the  pine  with  his  own 
potent  axe.  Nor  did  he  doubt  at  all  that  he  might  so  be 
enabled  to  escape  from  any  sudden  onslaught  of  his  enemies. 

A  large  and  tolerably  comfortable  tent  had  been  pitched 
with  the  sails,  masts,  and  cordage  of  the  smaller  boats.  Bed 
ding  and  food  in  profusion  had  been  brought  from  the  farm,  a 
good  fire  had  been  lighted,  and,  so  far  as  mere  animal  com 
forts  were  concerned,  the  family  and  their  involuntary  guest 
were  well  enough  provided. 

But  the  wants  of  the  heart !  the  cravings,  irrepressible  and 
agonizing  of  the  spirit !  for  them  what  care  of  mortal  shall 
provide  ? 

It  was  midnight  —  dark,  silent,  starless  midnight — the  heav 
ens  overclouded,  the  ocean  moaning  sullenly  beneath  its  dark 
canopy  of  cloud  and  mustering  storm. 

All  at  the  cove  were  buried  in  deep,  heavy  sleep  —  the 
child  of  sorrow  and  intense  excitement.  Sleep  that  exhausts 
rather  than  supports  —  sleep  that,  in  very  deed,  was  o'er- 
wrought  nature's  agony. 

The  women  and  children  slept  in  the  tent,  the  men,  Merci 
ful,  Gideon,  and  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  lay  in  their  cloaks  around 
the  wavering  embers  of  what,  some  hours  before,  had  been  a 


THE    ARREST.  147 

cheerful  watchfire,  with  their  weapons  ready  beside  them. 
The  very  dog  had  coiled  himself  away  in  some  nook  of  the 
rocks,  and  slumbered  before  them. 

And  it  was  needed  now  —  for,  during  an  hour  or  more, 
there  had  been  sounds  and  sights  on  the  sea,  and  on  the  shore, 
which,  had  there  been  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  behold  them, 
would  have  created  fear  and  apprehension. 

First,  the  long  roll  of  oars  rattling  in  the  rowlocks  with  that 
peculiar  and  regularly-marked  cadence  which  tells  the  prac 
tised  ear  that  the  rowers  are  man-of-war's  men,  came  swing 
ing  in  from  the  seaward. 

Then  several  hails  were  heard  from  boat  to  boat,  checking 
the  speed  of  this,  and  hurrying  the  loiterers  in  that,  to  the 
intent  that  all  should  come  to  land  at  the  same  time. 

Soon  afterward,  lights  might  have  been  seen  rising  into 
sight,  and  lost  again,  moment  after  moment,  as  the  bows  of  the 
boats  which  carried  them,  tossed  on  the  ridgy  billows. 

Next  came  the  crash  of  the  keels,  as  they  rode  in  upon  the 
crests  of  the  coming  seas  and  were  beached  on  the  shingly 
coast ;  and  then  succeeded  the  suppressed  hum  of  voices,  and 
the  sharp  clash  of  arms,  as  the  men  landed,  and  fell  into  col 
umn,  or  file  rather  of  two  in  front,  in  order  to  accommodate  their 
movements  to  the  rude  rocky  staircase,  and  the  narrow  bridge 
by  which  they  were  to  gain  the  platform.  The  lights  were  now 
all  extinguished,  with  the  exception  of  a  single  torch,  carried  by 
a  lance-pesade  at  the  head  of  the  file,  and  the  matches  of  the 
musqueteers,  which  gleamed  like  a  long  row  of  glow-worms 
in  the  darkness. 

Yet,  for  all  this,  the  watch-dog  had  given  out  no  warning 
bark  —  the  sleepers  slept,  unconscious  that  the  enemy  was  on 
their  very  threshold. 

And  now,  the  soldiery  had  scaled  the  steep  ascent,  and  had 
begun  to  file  across  the  wooden  bridge  —  when,  as  their  meas- 


148  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

ured  march  sent  out  its  regular  and  sullen  sounds,  the  faithless 
guardian  of  the  night  sprang  out  from  his  lurking-place  with  a 
vociferous  and  useless  clamor  —  and  all  were  on  their  feet  in 
an  instant. 

The  first  impulse  of  Merciful  Whalley  was  to  snatch  up 
his  wood-knife  and  his  musket,  thrusting  the  former  into  his 
leathern  girdle,  and  cocking  the  other  with  a  practised  hand. 

A  moment's  thought,  however,  convinced  him  of  the  folly 
of  resistance  ;  the  rather  as  he  saw  the  long  line  of  matches 
deploying  on  the  green,  and  attesting  the  presence  of  a  strong 
company  of  regulars. 

He  turned,  therefore,  with  a  rapid  step  toward  his  temporary 
ladder,  calling  out  to  Cecil, 

"  Keep  your  troth,  friend,  and  protect  her  in  her  peril,  as 
you  would  that  the  Lord  should  protect  you.  Farewell,  and 
God  keep  you !" 

As  his  voice  broke  the  silence,  another  voice  was  heard 
shouting  to  the  soldiery  —  it  was  the  voice  of  Clark. 

"  Hurrah  !  men,  we  have  got  the  archfiend  here.  That  was 
the  voice  of  Whalley.  Light  up  the  torches,  lads  ;  and,  ye 
surrender  quietly  —  if  ye  are  wise.  Good  treatment  to  all 
those  who  yield  !  Death  to  the  man  who  stirs  hand  or  foot  in 
resistance  !" 

At  these  words,  twenty  or  thirty  torches  were  lighted,  and 
a  red,  dusky  glare  was  thrown  across  the  narrow  platform, 
touching  the  canvass  of  the  white  tent,  and  bringing  into  bold 
relief  the  little  group  of  women  and  children,  with  the  fine 
figure  of  Sir  Henry  Cecil  standing  conspicuous  before  them. 

He  held  his  hat  in  his  hand}  and  had  just  snatched  a  musket 
from  the  grasp  of  Gideon,  and  cast  it  down  upon  the  ground, 
setting  his  foot  upon  it,  when  his  clear  voice  was  heard,  calm 
and  sonorous, 

"  For  God's  sake,  sir,  whoever  you  be,  use  no  violence  ; — 


THE    ARREST.  149 

trhere  are  none  here  to  resist  you,  and  we  surrender  quietly  to 
any  show  of  authority,  lawful,  or  unlawful;  —  there  are  none 
here  but  myself,  and  a  few  boys  and  women  !" 

"  Sir  Henry  Cecil,"  he  replied,  "  I  pledge  you  my  word 
there  shall  be  no  resistance,  if  you  offer  no  violence." 

"  That  is  enough  !  —  that  is  enough  !"  cried  Nathaniel  Clark, 
who  had  no  relish  for  hard  knocks,  and  entertained  some 
salutary  apprehensions  of  the  Puritan.  "  Stand  to  your  ranks, 
men,  steady!  Advance,  lance-pesades,  with  the  torches;  — 
but,  where  is  Merciful  Whalley  ?  I  heard  his  voice,  I  am 
certain." 

"  He  is  gone,"  answered  Cecil,  quietly.  "  He  fled  so  soon 
as  he  heard  you  coming." 

"Gone!  —  fled!  —  impossible  !"  cried  the  other.  "Quick! 
—  quick!  —  bring  up  those  torches.  How  should  he  have 
gone  hence,  or  whither  ?" 

The  torches  were  brought  forward  rapidly,  but  their  glare 
was  insufficient  to  illuminate  the  dark  corner  under  the  shadow 
of  the  rocks,  where  Merciful  was  scrambling  with  such  difficulty 
up  the  tree  ;  and  all  might  yet  have  been  well,  but  at  this  mo 
ment  a  heap  of  dry  torch-wood,  which,  in  the  first  moment  of 
alarm,  Gideon  had  cast  upon  the  embers  of  the  watch-fire, 
kindled  and  burst  out  into  a  jet  of  clear,  white  flame,  mounting 
high  into  the  air,  and  rendering  the  whole  scene  as  visible  as 
if  it  had  been  broad  daylight. 

The  Puritan  had  reached  the  head  of  the  fallen  tree,  and 
was  just  grasping  the  rope.  Another  moment  would  have 
placed  him  in  safety. 

"  There  !  there  !"  shouted  Clark,  "  there  he  stands  —  away! 
follow  him  !  fifty  guineas  to  the  man  who  takes  him  !" 

Half  a  dozen  of  the  soldiers  darted  away,  arid  two  began  to 
climb  with  such  activity  and  spirit,  assisted  by  the  light  of  the 

fire  and  the   torches,  and  encouraged  by  the   shouts  of  their 

N* 


150  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

comrades,  that  the  foremost  had  reached  the  rope,  and  began 
to  climb  it,  before  Whalley,  embarrassed  by  his  long  gun, 
which  he  had  slung  across  his  shoulder,  had  reached  the  sum 
mit  of  the  cliffs. 

It  was  a  scene  of  terrible  and  painful  interest.  Even  the 
gallant  Cecil  shook  like  a  leaf  with  the  strong  excitement, 
while  Ruth  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  firm  as  she  was  in  ordinary 
peril,  and  covered  her  eyes  with  both  her  hands,  unable  to 
look  upon  the  catastrophe. 

It  was  but  a  moment  before  Whalley  stood  unharmed  on  the 
summit,  the  soldier  scaling  the  rope  rapidly  within  six  feet  of  him. 

The  stern  Puritan  looked  down  with  a  grim  smile  upon  his 
pursuer  ;  he  drew  his  keen  wood-knife,  and  knelt  upon  the 
precipice's  edge. 

"  Back  !"  he  cried  to  the  man,  in  a  deep,  stern  voice,  "  back! 
or  I  cut  the  rope  !" 

But  the  man's  blood  was  up,  and  he  replied  only  by  a  curse. 

"  Once  more,  I  say,  back,  fool !"  shouted  the  Puritan,  "back, 
or  you  are  but  a  dead  man !"  and  he  laid  the  edge  of  his  knife 
to  the  cord. 

Then  Clark  himself  shouted  from  below  to  the  daring  sol 
dier,  "  Come  down,  fool !  it  is  all  too  late  !" 

But  the  man  still  persevered,  and  as  the  trenchant  blade 
severed  the  hempen  strands,  he  grasped  the  rocky  ledge  with 
both  hands.  Another  second  would  have  placed  him  on  the 
summit  beside  Whalley  ;  but,  ready-witted  in  peril,  the  Puri 
tan  struck  his  fingers  with  the  iron-bound  butt  of  his  musket ; 
he  relaxed  his  hold,  and  fell  headlong. 

A  wild  shriek  burst  from  the  spectators,  and  with  a  sharp 
metallic  clang,  the  muskets  of  the  soldiery  rose  to  the  aim  un 
bidden. 

It  was  well  for  the  daring  climber  that  he  fell  first  upon  the 
feathery  branches  of  the  pine-tree,  which  broke  his  fall,  and 


THE    ARREST.  151 

thence  upon  the  pile  of  boughs,  which  lay  on  the  ground  be 
neath  it,  else  never  had  he  moved  limb  any  more  !  As  it  was, 
although  stunned  for  the  moment,  and  sore  bruised,  he  escaped 
uninjured. 

But,  as  he  fell,  the  voice  of  Ravenscralt  shouted  to  "  fire," 
and  a  sharp  running  volley  rattled  immediately,  waking  strange 
echoes  from  the  cliffs,  and  the  balls  fell  pattering  like  hail 
storm  around  him.  Yet  he  stood  on  the  brink,  in  the  full  light, 
unharmed  and  fearless. 

But  all  were  not  so  fortunate  as  he.  The  little  group,  com 
posing  his  family,  stood  around  the  fire  midway  between  the 
soldiers  and  their  living  target,  and,  although  far  beneath  the 
line  of  fire,  so  rapid  was  the  volley,  and  so  bad  the  direction, 
that  several  balls  struck  about  them. 

One  took  effect  fatally  ! 

With  a  wild  yell,  poor  Tituba  fell  headlong  on  her  face 
among  the  embers  of  the  watch-fire  ! — happy  in  this,  at  least, 
that  she  was  dead  before  she  struck  the  ground ! 

The  victim  of  long  years  of  violence  fell  by  a  violent  and 
bloody  death  ! 

The  feminine  shriek  reached  Whalley's  ears ;  the  fall  of  the 
female  figure  met  his  eye. 

"  God  of  my  fathers  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  notes  of  the  most 
piercing  anguish,  "  is  it — is  it  my  child  ?  my  Ruth  ?  my  angel 
daughter  ?" 

And,  for  a  moment,  Cecil  feared  that  he  would  leap  down 
from  that  fearful  elevation. 

"  No,  no  !M  shouted  the  youthful  soldier,  "  it  is  the  Indian 
girl- — it  is  poor  Tituba!  Your  daughter  is  quite  safe  —  but,  I 
fear,  they  have  killed  the  other !  Begone,  for  God's  sake, 
Master  Whalley,  else  shall  more  evil  come  of  it !  I  will  pro 
tect  your  daughter." 

"  I  go  ;  but,  first,  one  shot  to  avenge  Tituba !" 


152  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

Almost  as  he  spoke,  a  bright  flash  glanced  from  the  muzzle 
of  his  piece,  and,  ere  the  full,  round  report  had  followed  it, 
the  officer,  who  gave  the  word  to  fire,  lay  gasping  with  a  mor 
tal  wound  upon  the  greensward. 

That  was  the  last  act  of  that  fatal  night — of  that  dread 
domestic  tragedy !  The  moment  he  had  discharged  that 
avenging  shot,  the  Puritan  retreated  from  the  edge  of  the  rocks, 
and,  almost  at  the  same  moment,  the  wood  which  had  blazed 
up  so  inauspiciously  being  consumed,  the  broad  flaming  light 
expired  ;  and,  save  from  the  lurid  glare  of  the  smoky  torches, 
the  dismal  scene,  with  its  spectators,  captives,  and  captors, 
would  have  been  buried  in  utter  darkness,  as  it  was  in  dismay 
and  dread. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

THE    DEPARTURE. 
"Farewell,  a  long  farewell." 

UNDER  whatever  circumstances,  there  is  always  a  feeling 
of  melancholy,  if  not  of  bitter  and  painful  regret,  connected 
with  departure  from  any  place  in  which  we  have  spent  calm 
and  happy  days.  How  much  more  so,  if  that  spot  be  the  hal 
lowed  home  of  our  childhood,  the  spot  on  which  our  eyes  first 
opened  to  the  daylight  —  how  much  more  so,  if  our  departure 
be  compulsory,  and  its  term  indefinite,  perhaps  everlasting. 

It  would  perhaps  be  difficult  for  fiction  to  invent  a  state  of 
things  more  painful,  than  that  under  which  Ruth  Whalley  was 
torn  from  that  first  home  she  had  ever  known,  torn  from  it 
never  probably  to  return  thither. 

The  dwelling  in  which  she  had  passed  so  many  tranquil  days, 


THE    DEPARTURE.  153 

a  heap  of  smouldering  ashes  ;  the  mother  whom  she  had  loved 
so  tenderly,  scarce  cold  in  her  untimely  sepulchre  ;  the  father 
whom  she  revered  and  pitied  with  such  reverence  of  filial  af 
fection,  a  proscribed  fugitive,  and  outlaw  ;  the  Indian  girl, 
whom  she  cherished  the  more  that  she  felt  almost  as  a  mother 
toward  her,  so  long  had  she  soothed  her  sorrows  and  protected 
her,  a  bleeding  corpse  ;  her  brothers,  and,  yet  worst  of  all,  her 
little  sister,  left  by  the  mother's  death  and  the  father's  outlawry, 
orphans  on  both  sides  !  what  could  be  more  disastrous,  more 
alarming  ?  But,  as  if  fate  had  determined  that  no  particular 
should  be  wanting,  this  was  not  all,  nor  to  herself  personally 
was  it  even  the  most  terrible. 

She  was  a  prisoner,  about  to  be  immured,  as  a  hostage  for 
her  father's  person  —  at  the  control,  absolutely  in  the  power,  of 
a  man,  the  most  abhorred,  the  least  scrupulous  of  means  where 
by  to  attain  his  ends,  in  all  New  England.  Nor,  with  the 
woman's  ready  and  instinctive  intuition  of  all  that  regards  the 
conditions  of  her  sex,  had  she  failed  to  decipher  the  atrocious 
meaning  of  the  governor's  wild,  lawless  glances,  or  to  suspect 
the  secret  object  of  his  persecution.  Yet,  upheld  by  the  purity 
of  an  honest,  innocent  heart,  confident  of  the  justice  of  her 
cause,  the  rectitude  of  her  intentions,  she  was  so  calm,  so  tran 
quil,  so  self-sustained,  as  she  made  the  brief  preparations  for 
her  forced  departure,  that  Cecil  scarcely  knew  whether  to  attrib 
ute  the  firmness  of  her  demeanor  to  the  highest  grade  of  forti 
tude,  or  to  insensibility  of  her  position. 

It  was  nearly  low  water,  when  the  soldiers  landed  at  the 
cove  ;  and,  as  above  three  hours  had  elapsed  during  the  terri 
ble  occurrences  which  signalized  their  coming,  and  the  differ 
ent  preparations  necessary  ere  they  could  re-embark,  the  tide 
was  making  rapidly  ;  and  a  faint,  dappling  of  the  east  began 
to  give  token  of  the  appearance  of  another  day. 

The  officer,  whom  the  avenging  bullet  of  the  Puritan  had 

7* 


154  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

stricken  down  in  the  midst  of  his  triumph,  wrestled  long  with 
his  agony  ;  and  this  had  delayed  the  movement  of  the  soldiers. 
It  was  too  evident  that  he  was  wounded  mortally,  and  that  any 
attempt  to  remove  him  would  be  but  to  precipitate  the  fatal 
moment ;  anxious  as  he  was,  therefore,  to  return  with  the  news 
of  his  success  to  his  employer,  Clark,  to  whom,  though  no 
soldier,  the  management  of  the  expedition  had  been  intrusted, 
could  not  attempt  to  enforce  a  re-embarkation.  At  length,  how 
ever,  the  stout  soldier  breathed  his  last,  sensible  that  he  was 
cut  down  in  the  unjust  quarrel  of  another ;  and  bitterly  com 
plaining  that  obedience  to  orders  that  he  might  not  dispute,  had 
consigned  him  to  a  fate  so  untimely  and  ignoble. 

"  Had  it  been  fighting  with  the  enemies  of  my  country,"  he 
gasped  feebly  with  his  choked  voice,  in  faltering  accents, 
"  with  the  colors  of  my  king  above  my  head,  and  the  broad  day 
to  witness  gallant  actions,  I  had  not  cared  a  rush  —  soldiers 
have  but  to  die  !  but  thus  !  thus  !  shot  like  a  mad  dog,  in  a 
night  affray,  by  a  lousy  peasant — faugh!  —  is  this  the  end  — 
of — an  —  old — soldier!"  —  his  words  became  more  and  more 
interrupted  ;  his  voice  failed  altogether ;  his  head  fell  back ; 
they  thought  that  all  was  over. 

But  in  a  moment  he  raised  himself  erect  with  a  convulsive 
motion,  and  cried  aloud  in  clear  accents,  "  Give  me  a  soldier's 
grave  !  Farewell,  old  companions  !  Attention  !  England  for 
ever!  Hurrah!  boys  —  hurrah!"  And  ere  the  words  had 
well  left  his  lips,  he  was  dead ! 

And  such,  thought  Cecil  sadly  within  his  secret  soul,  such 
is  the  veteran's  end  —  a  man  like  this  lost  to  his  country  at  a 
proud  despot's  bidding. 

The  brave  man  once  departed,  there  was  no  more  delay ; 
his  body  was  wrapped  in  his  military  cloak,  and  carried  down 
by  six  of  his  men  in  silent  sorrow  to  the  barge.  Short  time 
was  allowed  to  Ruth  for  her  adieus  to  Gideon  and  the  younger 


THE    DEPARTURE.  155 

ones  ;  short  time  for  advice  and  exhortation.  But  she  kissed 
each  in  turn,  and  pressed  them  to  her  bosom,  and  bade  them 
be  of  good  comfort,  and  not  forget  their  God  in  the  days  of  their 
sorrow.  But  when  she  came  to  the  babe,  her  dead  mother's 
darling,  she  wept  bitterly,  and  placing  her  in  the  arms  of  her 
elder  brother  — 

"  Remember,"  she  said,  "  Gabriel,  that  to  this  little  one  you 
are  now  all  in  all ;  to  her  you  must  be  father,  mother,  sister, 
brother  —  God  keep  you — fare  you  well.  Bury  that  poor 
thing,  there  —  beside  —  you  know — brother!  God  bless  you, 
brother !" 

Her  words  died  in  her  throat ;  she  could  say  no  more  ;  but 
she  turned  to  Sir  Edmund's  emissary  with  air  of  true  dignity — 

"  Now,  sir,"  she  said,  "  I  am  ready  ;  lead  on,  I  will  follow." 

And  not  daring  to  trust  herself  to  take  a  last  look  at  the 
ruined  homestead,  the  fresh  grave,  or  the  sad  group,  whom  she 
left  behind  her,  she  took  the  arm  which  Cecil  tendered  re 
spectfully,  and  went  her  way  in  silent  anguish. 

In  ten  minutes  more,  the  boats  were  darting  toward  the  dis 
tant  town  as  fast  as  the  sturdy  oarsmen  could  drive  them 
through  the  water ;  and  ere  long,  the  breeze  rising  as  the  sun 
drew  nigh  to  the  horizon,  and  the  gray  dawn  grew  brighter, 
their  sails  were  set,  and  they  stood  gallantly  and  gayly  (as  if 
they  bore  in  them  no  breaking  hearts,  left  none  behind  them) 
homeward  before  the  wind  that  sent  them  over  the  ridgy  waves 
with  a  sound  as  of  a  giant's  laughter. 

It  was  long  ere  the  wailing  of  the  younger  boys  and  of  the 
little  girl,  thus  cruelly  abandoned  among  scenes  so  fearful  and 
heart-rending,  was  lulled  into  silence  ;  but  happily  the  sorrows 
of  the  very  young  are  but,  comparatively  speaking,  brief  in 
duration  ;  and,  worn-out  with  fatigue  and  excitement,  they 
sobbed  themselves  at  length  to  sleep,  and  all  was  silent. 

But  Gideon  slept  not ;  the  responsibility  of  his  situation,  and 


156  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

the  strange  calls  upon  his  manhood  within  the  last  few  hours, 
had  made  him  a  man,  almost  prematurely. 

With  a  musket  upon  his  shoulder,  he  was  walking  backward 
and  forward,  a  sentinel  over  the  living  and  the  dead,  when, 
scarce  an  hour  after  the  departure  of  the  boats,  his  father  hailed 
him,  from  the  top  of  the  rocks. 

"  Gideon  !  what,  ho  !  is  all  clear  below  ?" 

"  All  is  clear,  father.     They  have  been  gone  this  hour." 

Merciful  fastened  a  fresh  rope  to  the  stump  aloft,  and  swing 
ing  himself  boldly  down,  stood  by  his  son's  side  in  a  moment. 

"  Let  them  sleep,"  said  the  stern  father,  melted  now  from  all 
his  sternness.  "  Let  them  sleep,  Gideon,  while  they  may. 
Now,  mark  me,  there  is  no  time  to  lose  —  the  old  man  and  I 
should  have  been,  out  at  sea  ere  this.  The  schooner  is  all 
ready,  the  tide  up ;  we  must  get  him  on  board,  and  then  put 
off  at  once.  Enoch  shall  go  with  me.  But  we  will  let  him 
sleep,  to  the  last  minute.  Now,  for  your  own  part ;  so  soon 
as  I  am  gone,  get  the  two  little  ones  into  the  pinnace,  and 
carry  them  to  neighbor  Venty's  house  at  Nahant.  Martha 
will  be  a  mother  to  them,  for  a  while,  for  the  sake  of  her  who 
is  gone.  Get  some  of  the  lads  to  come  and  help  you  bury  that 
poor  thing.  Then  go  to  Boston,  find  Simon  Bradstreet,  tell 
him  all  that  has  fallen  out,  and  do  all  that  he  bids  you.  Tarry 
in  Boston  till  I  come  ;  and  if  in  aught  you  may  comfort  Ruth, 
do  so.  Be  quiet  above  all  things  ;  brawl  not ;  nor  complain 
loudly :  nor  resist  the  authorities  in  anything  —  the  time  is  not 
yet  fully  come.  Do  you  understand  me,  boy  ?" 

"  Perfectly,  father,"  replied  the  young  man,  steadily  and 
proudly.  "  And,  with  God's  help,  I  will  do  all  your  bidding." 

"  Well  spoken,  boy,"  said  his  father,  grasping  his  hand  with 
a  feeling  akin  to  admiration.  "  Truly  these  are  dark  times, 
Gideon.  But,  remember,  no  hour  of  night  so  dark  as  that  which 
is  nighest  to  the  blessed  morning  —  and  no  night  so  black  but 


THE    DEPARTURE.  157 

the  will  of  God  can  turn  it  into  brightest  day,  yea,  in  the  twin 
kling  of  an  eye." 

Then  was  a  solemn  pause  of  a  few  moments  ;  and  both 
mused  deeply,  and,  perhaps,  hopefully,  until  Merciful  again 
broke  silence  — 

"  Come  —  we  must  go  to  work  —  there  is  no  time  for  loiter 
ing." 

Within  a  few  minutes,  the  old  man  was  on  board,  the  moor 
ings  of  the  schooner,  all  save  one,  were  cast  off,  the  sails  un 
furled,  and  everything  in  readiness. 

Then,  for  the  last  time,  Merciful  returned  ashore.  With 
Gideon's  aid,  he  removed  the  corpse  into  the  tent,  and  fastened 
the  canvass  closely  to  the  ground  with  pegs  and  heavy  stones, 
that  neither  beast  nor  bird  should  enter,  until  the  return  of  his 
son  with  the  men  who  should  inter  her. 

Then  Enoch  was  aroused,  and  sent  on  board  the  schooner, 
prond,  in  his  boyish  triumph,  at  being  chosen  by  his  father  for 
an  important  duty  ;  and  then  the  hard  man  knelt  and  prayed 
over  the  grave  of  his  unhappy  wife  ;  knelt  and  wept,  almost 
tenderly,  over  his  sleeping  children. 

Rising  to  his  feet  with  a  strong,  silent  effort,  he  grasped 
Gideon's  hand,  and  went  aboard  his  little  vessel,  without  an 
other  word. 

The  last  rope  was  cast  of.  In  half  an  hour  he  was  a  league 
away  to  the  westward,  all  his  sails  set  and  distended  by  a  fresh 
favorable  breeze. 

Then  Gideon  awakened  the  little  ones.  He  had  victualled 
the  pinnace  for  their  short  voyage,  and  stepped  its  light  mast 
already  ;  and  now,  with  the  old  house-dog  and  the  playful  kit 
ten,  sole  relics  left  of  that  large  and  well-ordered  household 
he  put  them  on  board  the  last  boat,  rejoicing  childlike  in  the 
thoughts  of  a  merry  sail  over  the  sunny  sea,  and  half  forgetful 
of  the  mother  they  had  lost,  the  sorrows  they  had  felt,  yestreen 


158  THE    FAIR    PURITAN'. 

—  happy  in  that  one  faculty,  the  faculty  of  childhood  only  — 
that  they  could  readily  forget ! 

Save  by  the  dead  alone,  the  cove  was  now  untenanted.  The 
graves  may  be  seen  there  yet :  but  human  habitation  was 
never  raised  again  on  that  ill-omened  spot. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

THE    MOURNER. 
"  To  breakfast,  with  what  appetite  you  may." 

IT  was  already  broad,  rejoicing  day,  when  the  man-of-war 
boats,  which  had  been  despatched  late  on  the  previous  evening, 
were  descried  coming  up  the  beautiful  bay,  with  their  lug-sails 
set,  dancing  along  before  a  brisk  sea-breeze. 

Nothing  can  be  conceived  more  beautiful  than  the  scene 
which  was  presented  by  Boston  and  its  environ,  even  at  that 
early  day  ;  when  the  dense  verdure  of  the  primitive  forests 
had  not  receded  wholly  from  the  limits  of  cultivation,  but  was 
delightfully  interspersed  everywhere  with  the  well-cultivated 
fields,  and  glowing  gardens  of  the  industrious  and  earnest 
settlers. 

Some  of  the  islands,  with  which  the  lovely  bay  is  dotted, 
were  still  clothed  in  the  untrimmed  greenery  of  nature  ;  some 
bolder  and  more  sterile,  were  girt  with  incipient  fortifications, 
and  mounted  with  a  few  guns,  under  that  meteor  flag  of  Eng 
land,  which  waved  not  then,  as  now,  in  every  quarter  of  the 
habitable  globe. 

Boston  which  already  at  this  time,  with  its  neighboring  vil 
lages,  contained  some  ten  thousand  souls,  was  a  beautiful  and 
striking  object ;  not  clustered,  like  the  compact  and  unven- 


THE    MOURNER.  159 

tilated  towns  of  the  Old  World,  about  some  feudal  turret,  or 
hedged  in  by  moat  or  rampart,  but  straggling  over  a  large  space 
of  ground,  with  pleasant  gardens  and  green  groves  between  its 
happy  homes,  and  the  houses  of  God  only  lifting  their  modest 
and  unsteepled  heads  above  the  breezy  foliage. 

The  refined  taste  and  poetical  imagination  of  Ruth  Whalley, 
at  any  other  time,  would  have  been  kindled  into  rapture  by  the 
aspect  of  that  fair  city  and  the  fertile  hills  around  it,  under  the 
brilliant  influences  of  the  cloudless  sky,  and  the  sunny  morn 
ing. 

But  there  was  no  room  now  in  her  oppressed  and  sorrow 
ful  spirit,  for  any  joyous  or  romantical  impressions. 

She  had  sat  silent  in  the  stern-sheets  of  the  barge,  and  al 
most  motionless,  since  she  had  left  the  cove.  Insensible  to 
the  chilly  dampness  of  the  early  morn  and  the  fresh  sea-breeze, 
so  much  more  was  she  occupied  by  the  intolerable  weight  of 
her  inward  sorrows,  than  by  any  consideration  of  her  external 
sufferings,  she  was  scarce  conscious  that  some  charitable  hand 
had  wrapped  her  closely  in  a  warm  boat-cloak. 

How  then  should  she  think  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  how 
rejoice  in  the  sun-lighted  atmosphere,  or  in  the  rippling  wave 
lets,  azure  with  crests  of  gold,  leaping  and  glancing  in  the 
morning's  radiance,  when  she  took  no  note  of  those  bodily 
sensations  to  which  at  another  time  her  every  nerve  would 
have  thrilled  painfully  ? 

Between  the  sorrows  of  the  past,  and  the  anticipations  of 
the  future,  it  was  all  that  poor  Ruth  could  do  to  muster  enough 
of  resolution  to  face  her  position  calmly,  to  refrain  from  vain 
tears  and  feminine  lamentation. 

How  could  she  have  done  this,  had  she  not  been  endowed 
happily  with  a  character  of  no  ordinary  firmness  ;  had  not  that 
character  been  formed  by  trials  of  no  common  or  every-day 
occurrence  ;  had  not  her  whole  soul  been  pervaded  by  love, 


i()0  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

and  faith,  and  that  true  piety  which  hopes  all,  and  confides  all, 
to  the  wisdom  and  the  mercy  of  the  All- Wise,  the  All-Merciful. 

Such  love,  such  faith,  such  confidence,  indeed,  do  much,  and 
avail  much  —  but  they  can  not  do  all  things,  nor  command  en 
tirely  the  course  of  human  feelings.  Mortality,  alas  !  how 
trained  soever  to  set  its  hopes  on  high,  to  lay  its  treasure  up, 
"  where  neither  moth  nor  rust  doth  corrupt,  and  where  thieves 
do  not  break  through  nor  steal,"  must  still  be  mortality  —  must 
still  feel  the  heart-ache,  the  fear,  and  the  strife,  which  are 
part  and  parcel  of  its  earthly  nature  ;  must  droop  and  pine 
when  bereaved  of  the  loved,  the  lost ;  must  shudder  at  the  ap 
proach  of  trial  and  temptation  ;  must  wince  beneath  torture, 
whether  it  be  of  the  body  or  the  soul. 

Thus  was  it  now  with  Ruth  Whalley.  If  ever  heart  was 
imbued  with  gratitude,  and  reverence,  and  love  to  the  God 
whom  she  worshipped,  in  the  singleness  of  her  young  spirit, 
it  was  hers.  If  ever  soul  was  schooled  and  taught,  by  sad  ex 
perience,  to  lay  its  burthens  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  arid  to 
count  all  earthly  sorrows  as  everlasting  gain,  it  was  hers. 

Yet  there  are  moments,  when  the  power  of  religion,  however 
deeply  it  may  penetrate  the  spirit,  however  much  it  may  alle 
viate  the  griefs  of  those,  who  are  not  sorry  as  men  without 
hope,  can  not  control  the  anguish  of  the  heart,  or  change 
melancholy  to  rejoicing. 

Thus  was  it  now  with  Ruth. 

She  knew,  that  it  was  well  with  the  departed.  She  knew, 
that  a  life  of  suffering  and  sorrow,  endured  with  exemplary 
resignation,  a  life  of  good-will  and  Christian  benevolence  to 
ward  all  men,  a  life  of  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  must  have  won 
its  exceeding  great  reward.  She  knew  that  the  weak  frame 
of  her,  whom  she  mourned,  would  be  no  more,  was  weary  for 
everlasting  —  that  the  wounded  heart  would  no  more  bleed, 
the  o'erwrought  brain  ache  no  longer.  She  knew,  in  the  holy, 


THE    MOURNER.  161 

happy  confidence  of  her  strong  faith,  that  the  dear,  dear  moth 
er,  whom  she  had  never  seen  on  earth,  but  sad,  sick  at  heart, 
unprized,  ill-requited,  was  now  enjoying  bliss  ineffable  in 
heaven. 

Yet  she  felt  —  she  felt  only,  that  the  dear  mother  was  gone 
hence,  never  again  to  beam  affection  on  her  from  those  deep, 
fond  eyes ;  never  again  to  smile  welcome  with  those  thin,  pale 
lips,  to  smile  with  that  mournful  sweetness  which  made  the 
wan  face  beautiful ;  never  again  to  say  "  dearest"  in  that  low, 
gentle  voice,  the  very  tone  of  which  dwells  in  her  ear,  like 
unforgotten  music.  She  only  felt  the  void,  the  emptiness,  the 
hollowness,  which  nothing  in  this  world  again  should  ever  fill 
or  satisfy. 

How  then  should  she  take  note  of  the  white  walls  and  the 
diamond  lattices,  laughing  in  the  gay  morning  sunshine  ;  or  of 
the  trees  singing  their  joyous  matins,  with  their  breeze-shaken 
harps  awake  and  vocal  ?  How  should  she  mark  "  the  unnum 
bered  laughter  of  the  ocean  waves,"  or  enjoy  the  minstrelsey 
of  the  light  summer  gale  murmuring  gently  over  and  around  her  ? 
•  No  !  no  !  There  are  griefs  which  overcome  us  like  a  sum 
mer-cloud  ;  which  pass  not  like  the  summer-cloud  away. 
There  are  sorrows  which  fall  with  a  weight  so  chilling  on  the 
heart,  that  we  feel  instantly,  instinctively,  that  for  us  the  glory 
of  this  world  has  indeed  departed  —  that  henceforth  the  sun 
may  shine,  but  it  will  no  more  be  that  sunshine  —  that  hence 
forth  we  may  see,  may  love,  the  beauties  of  the  fair  earth  and 
blessed  heavens  ;  but  it  will  no  more  be  that  earth,  or  those 
heavens,  on  which  we  gazed  so  happily,  so  trustfully,  through 
the  charmed  medium  of  a  mutual  soul. 

Alas  !  for  those  with  whom  it  is  so.  For  them  there  is  no 
future  here  ;  the  past  is  their  all  on  earth  —  their  only  object, 
in  this  life,  must  be  thenceforth  to  forget  the  present  —  to 

dream  of  a  futurity,  beyond,  incomprehensible,  eternal. 
0* 


162  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

It  was  not  thus,  however,  that  her  grief  smote  the  soul  ol 
Ruth.  The  loss  of  the  aged,  how  much  beloved  soever,  is  a 
thing  so  much  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature,  that  though  it 
may  stun  for  the  time,  though  it  may  even  depress  and  sadden 
us,  for  days,  months,  perhaps  years,  rarely  or  never  crushes  us 
with  that  overwhelming  weight  of  wo,  which  paralyzes  all 
capacity  for  happiness  thereafter. 

Stunned  she  was,  grievously,  and  oppressed,  not  by  the  past 
only,  but  by  the  darkest  forebodings  for  the  future  —  forebodings 
for  herself,  yet  not  selfish  —  forebodings  for  all  whom  she  loved 
on  earth. 

She  was  alone,  too.  Alone  in  her  sorrow  —  alone  in  her 
dread  of  coming  trials. 

There  was  no  kindly  voice  to  whisper  comfort  for  the  past, 
hope  for  the  future. 

The  only  friend,  who  could  have  consoled,  was  intentionally 
separated  from  her,  in  that  dark  hour.  Her  enemies  were 
shrewd  and  deep-sighted  in  piercing  the  secrets  of  the  heart 
—  children  of  darkness,  wiser  in  their  generation  than  the 
children  of  light. 

Intending  to  act  on  her  mind  wholly,  it  was  their  object  to 
make  her  feel  at  once  the  utter  loneliness,  the  isolation,  the 
unfriended,  hopeless  position  in  which  she  was  placed.  And, 
with  this  end  in  view,  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  from  whose  gallant 
and  daring  spirit,  coupled  to  his  sincere  hatred  of  all  tyranny, 
Andross  expected  the  only  opposition  he  was  like  to  meet  in 
his  infamous  designs  —  Sir  Henry  Cecil  had  been  purposely 
placed  in  a  different  boat  from  the  fair  Puritan  ;  and  that  boat's 
crew  had  been  instructed  to  lay  somewhat  behind  the  others, 
in  order  to  prevent,  if  possible,  the  youthful  knight  from  learn 
ing  the  fate  of  his  fair  fellow-captive. 

It  might  have  been  about  eight  o'clock  of  the  fine  summer 
morning,  when  the  three  leading  boats  landed  on  the  esplanade, 


THE    MOURNER.  163 

under  the  guns  of  the  frigate  and  the  fort,  on  both  of  which  the 
English  flag  was  flying,  over  brave  hearts  and  stout  hands,  as 
ever  roamed  the  deep  in  pursuit  of  glory. 

A  company  of  musqueteers  were  exercising  on  the  espla 
nade,  with  their  bright  gorgets  and  steel  caps  glittering  gayly  in 
the  sunshine,  and  their  red  cassocks  making  a  glorious  show 
among  the  dark-colored  cloaks  and  doublets  and  the  steeple- 
crowned  hats  of  the  few  artisans  and  shopkeepers,  who  had 
collected  to  witness  the  spectacle,  with  eyes  half-admiring, 
half-abhorrent. 

As  the  boats  came  to  shore,  the  officer  in  command,  detach 
ing  a  small  party  to  clear  the  mound  of  all  idlers,  marched  his 
company  down  the  beach,  and  formed  it  in  close  order,  in  a 
hollow  column,  open  toward  the  sea. 

Without  a  moment's  delay,  the  soldiers  who  were  in  the 
boat  with  Ruth,  a  dozen  perhaps  in  number,  leaped  ashore  ; 
and,  Clark  who  had  accompanied  her,  taking  her  by  one  arm 
and  Foxcroft  by  the  other,  she  was  lifted  to  the  dry  ground,  and 
instantly  conveyed  into  the  centre  of  that  serried  column,  her 
guard  marching  after  her  into  the  hollow  space,  and  filling  the 
whole  up,  so  as  to  render  it  a  solid  mass,  of  which  she  formed 
the  centre,  with  six  men  on  each  side  of  her,  and  three  times 
as  many  before  and  behind. 

The  word  of  command  was  given  instantly  ;  the  drums  and 
fifes  struck  up  a  march  ;  and  at  a  steady  and  quick  step  the 
column  marched  into  the  town,  their  several  ranks  and  sloped 
fire-locks  effectually  concealing  the  sex  and  person  of  their 
prisoner,  from  any  over-curious  eyes. 

The  red-coats  were  not,  at  that  time,  at  all  more  popular  in 
Massachusetts,  than  they  were  at  a  later  period  ;  and,  in  some 
respects,  it  was  perhaps  unfortunate  for  Ruth  that  it  was  so. 

For  no  persons  followed  the  glittering  procession,  except  a 
few  idle  boys  ;  and  no  windows  were  raised  in  the  streets 


164  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

through  which  they  passed,  no  heads  protruded  to  gaze  upon 
the  flaunting  plumes  and  flashing  weapons,  or  to  listen  to  the 
exhilarating  music. 

The  escort  arrived,  therefore,  at  the  door  of  the  government 
house,  its  purpose  unsuspected ;  and,  forming  in  the  same 
order  now  as  they  had  done  before  at  the  place  of  debarkation, 
the  soldiers  covered  the  entrance  of  Ruth  into  the  house  of  her 
worst  enemy,  and  she  passed  in  unseen  by  any  eye  of  friend 
or  countryman. 

Ignorant  whither  she  had  been  conveyed,  the  innocent  girl 
gazed  around  her  with  bewildered  eyes,  as  she  found  herself 
instead  of  being  within  the  precincts,  as  she  had  expected,  of 
a  dark  and  loathsome  hall,  with  a  circular  staircase  leading  to 
a  fair  gallery  above  ;  adorned  with  arms,  and  standards,  and 
emblazoned  escutcheons,  and  tenanted  by  several  lackeys, 
flaunting  in  royal  liveries  of  scarlet  and  silver. 

Nathaniel  Clark  alone  entered  the  house  with  her,  the  heavy 
door  closed  after  her,  arid  by  its  sullen  jar  told  her  the  fatal 
truth,  that  she  was  now  as  much  a  prisoner  in  that  fair  man 
sion,  as  she  could  have  been  in  the  darkest  and  most  gloomy 
dungeon. 

In  total  silence,  her  conductor  led  her  up-stairs,  traversed 
the  corridor,  entered  a  small  ante-chamber  richly  furnished, 
and  passing  through  it,  flung  open  the  door  of  a  large  and 
stately  bed-chamber,  and  motioned  her  to  enter. 

"  His  excellency,"  he  said,  "  feeling  for  your  unpleasant  sit 
uation,  and  desirous  of  alleviating,  as  much  as  in  him  lies,  the 
sorrow  and  vexation  it  must  cause  you,  has  determined,  as  you 
are  a  prisoner  for  no  crime,  but  a  hostage  only  for  your  father's 
forthcoming,  to  detain  you  here  for  a  while,  in  his  own  house,  in 
stead  of  committing  you  to  a  common  prison.  You  will  find  food 
prepared  for  you,  and  change  of  raiment,  and  everything  that 
is  needful  ;  a  servant  of  your  own  sex  will  attend  you ;  and  il 


THE    MOURNER.  165 

will  not  probably  be  very  long  ere  you  will  be  once  more  at 
liberty." 

Ruth  Whalley  gazed  at  him  wildly  while  he  was  speaking ; 
and  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  would  have  interrupted  him  ;  but, 
until  he  had  ceased,  no  word  came  forth  from  them.  Then 
she  cried  eagerly  — 

"His  house!  —  did  you  say  his  house?  His  —  the  gov 
ernor's  ?" 

"  I  did,"  he  replied,  with  a  bland  smile  ;  "  you  will  be  lodged 
like  the  nobles  of  the  land." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  answered,  "oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  no! 
Better  the  blackest,  deepest  dungeon!  Oh,  sir  —  kind,  gentle 
sir,"  she  continued,  clasping  her  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  pas 
sion,  "  take  me  hence  ! — take  me  hence  !  —  take  me,  for  God's 
sake,  to  the  common  jail !  Leave  me  among  the  foulest  male 
factors  ;  but  oh,  do  not,  do  not  compel  me  to  tarry  here  !" 

"  By  my  honor !"  he  answered  coldly,  "  you  do  not  know 
when  you  are  well,  methinks  ;  nor  have  you  much  idea  of 
what  a  dungeon  is  ;  or  else  you  would  not  be  so  anxious  to 
change  your  quarters.  No  !  no  !  I  have  no  power  in  the  mat 
ter.  I  must  obey  orders.  And  you  would  not  thank  me  to 
morrow,  if  I  broke  them  to  do  your  bidding.  No  !  you  will 
not  be  of  this  way  of  thinking,  long.  You  will  be  very  well 
here  —  fine  rooms,  soft  beds,  rich  fare.  And,  speaking  of 
fare,"  he  added,  stepping  up  to  a  table  sumptuously  spread, 
"see  what  a  morning  meal  is  here  —  oysters  in  aspick  jelly, 
a  fat,  larded  capon,  white  rolls,  and  cates,  such  as  women  love 
—  and  champagne  above  all  things.  I  commend  you  to  the 
champagne  especially.  Sir  Edmund  is  choice  in  his  wines. 
And,  seeing  that  you  may  be  awkward  at  unwiring  it,  I  will 
make  the  way  plain  for  you."  Then,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  he  uncorked  the  flask,  poured  himself  out  a  pottering 
bumper,  nodded  familiarly  to  the  poor  girl,  saying — "  Come  ' 


166  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

gayer  thoughts  to  you,  fair  girl !  and  a  good  appetite  !"  and  he 
quaffed  it  to  the  dregs. 

Then,  ere  he  left  the  room,  he  added,  "you  will  be  just 
as  free  here  as  at  home,  only  you  can't  get  out.  The  win 
dow  is  three  stories  high,  and  looks  into  a  walled  garden  ; 
the  doors,  I  am  grieved  to  say,  I  must  lock  behind  me. — 
But  don't,  I  prithee,  look  so  disconsolate.  Cheer  up  and  take 
some  breakfast ;  believe  me  now,  you  will  feel  much  happier 
after  breakfast.  I  am  myself  somewhat  greasy  of  a  morning, 
and  fantastical,  not  to  say  melancholical ;  but  after  breakfast, 
it  is  a  wonder  to  see  how  I  brighten  up  again.  Fare  you 
well,  and  believe  me,  you  will  feel  much  happier  after  break 
fast." 

And,  with  a  lamentable  attempt  at  imitation  of  the  light  flip 
pancy  and  licentious  coxcombry  of  the  young  gallants  whom 
he  had  admired  in  Sir  Edmund's  train,  the  vicious  and  base 
New-Englander  liberated  the  poor  girl,  at  least,  from  one 
odious  thing,  his  own  disgusting  presence. 

But  she  was  unconscious  even  of  that  poor  relief.  She 
gazed  around  her  for  one  instant,  at  the  rich  furniture,  the  gor 
geous  bed,  the  sumptuous  meal,  the  splendid  garments  which 
were  laid  out  as  if  for  her  use  ;  and  her  heart  sank  almost 
hopelessly,  as  her  worst  fears  were  thus  confirmed. 

Her  courage  all  gave  way  —  she  bowed  her  head  upon  her 
knees,  and  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of  fierce  agony,  such  as  her 
calm  and  gentle  nature  never  had  known  before. 


THE    TEMPTATION.  167 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE    TEMPTATION. 

FOR  a  short  time  after  her  odious  persecutor  had  relieved 
tier  of  his  presence,  the  fair  girl  sat  motionless,  sick  at  heart, 
almost  hopeless,  and  full  of  sad  and  terrible  forebodings.  It 
was  some  minutes  before  she  could  sufficiently  collect  her 
senses  to  understand  or  realize  thoroughly  her  actual  situation. 

For  so  pure  was  her  young  and  maiden  spirit,  so  innocent, 
and  so  unconscious  of  all  evil,  that  it  was  difficult,  almost  im 
possible,  for  her  to  comprehend  the  baseness  and  brutality  of 
Edmund  Andross. 

Nor,  indeed,  until  the  visit  of  that  vile  pander  to  his  foul  will, 
had  she  surmised  or  apprehended  any  more  formidable  danger 
to  herself  than  a  few  days  of  honorable  durance.  It  was  the 
cause  only  of  that  state  of  durance,  in  which  she  was  held,  and 
its  probable  consequences  to  her  father,  that  had  rendered  her 
anxious  and  unhappy. 

The  sight,  it  is  true,  of  the  splendid  repast  under  which 
groaned  the  rich  table,  and  of  the  gorgeous  dress  prepared  for 
her,  had  for  a  few  seconds'  space  awakened  some  suspicions, 
but  they  were  slight  and  transient ;  and  until  the  vile  agent  of 
the  governor's  licentious  and  despotic  pleasures  had  left  her  to 
her  meditations,  she  had  perceived  no  cause  of  seriousness  or 
deep  alarm. 

But  now,  the  whole  dark  truth  broke  on  her  soul  at  once 

she  saw,  as  we  see  objects,  by  the  pervading  glance  of  the 
electric  flash,  during  the  darkness  of  a  stormy  mind,  all  her 
own  fearful  perils,  all  her  oppressor's  schemes  of  infamy,  all 


JG8  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

the  woes  that  were  gathering  about  her  devoted  family  —  all 
this  she  saw,  more  clearly,  more  palpably  a  hundred-fold,  by 
aid  of  the  spiritual  flash  which  lighted  momentarily  up  the 
darkness  of  her  soul,  than  she  had  done  by  the  steadiest  light 
of  reason. 

All  this  she  saw,  but  therewith  she  saw  no  way  to  escape 
from  the  toils,  which  were  spread  on  every  side  of  her,  no 
strength  whereby  to  resist  the  arm  of  actual  violence  if  it 
should  menace. 

Long  she  revolved  and  pondered  these  things,  but  it  was 
only  to  perceive  the  utter  fruitlessness  of  any  human  intellect 
to  plan,  of  any  human  force  to  effect  her  rescue. 

At  length,  in  obedience  to  the  dictates  of  her  warm,  pious 
heart,  and  mindful  of  the  customs  of  her  father's  house,  she 
sank  down  upon  her  knees,  and  with  clasped  hands,  and 
streaming  eyes,  prayed  long  and  fervently  to  him  who  alone  is 
a  "  present  help  in  the  time  of  trouble." 

She  prayed,  not  for  the  safety  of  her  mother's  soul,  to  do 
that  the  stern  dictates  of  the  puritanic  rule  forbade,  as  idolatrous 
and  papistical ;  but  that  she  might  resemble  her  in  patience, 
in  long-suffering,  in  grace  ;  that,  like  her,  she  might  be  pre 
served  spotless  from  the  foul  stains  of  the  world  ;  that,  like 
her,  she  might  live  in  the  faith,  and  die  acceptable  to  the  Lord. 
She  prayed  that  the  gray  hairs  of  her  father,  and  of  her  father's 
father,  might  be  shielded  by  his  hand,  who  alone  can  save, 
from  any  mortal  peril  ;  and  that  no  shame  might  be  brought 
upon  them  by  any  deed  of  hers,  or  wrong  endured  unconsent- 
ing.  She  prayed  for  her  brothers,  and  for  that  hapless  orphan 
sister,  abandoned,  in  her  tender  infancy,  to  the  precarious  nur 
ture  of  a  stranger.  She  prayed  also,  though  her  voice  fal 
tered  somewhat,  and  her  heart  fully  smote  her  as  she  did  so, 
for  the  young,  gallant  cavalier,  who  had  so  nobly  and  so  gen 
tly  striven  to  protect  her  ;  who  had  already,  it  might  well  be 


THE    TEMPTATION.  169 

said,  saved  her  from  some  outrage,  and  to  whose  aid,  alone  of 
earthly  guardians,  she  looked  with  any  confidence  of  hope. 

Refreshed  and  strengthened  she  arose,  as  all  must  needs 
arise,  who  commune  in  sincerity  and  faith  with  Him  who  is 
in  heaven  ;  as  all  must  needs  arise  who  put  hope  where  only 
safety  can  be  found  ;  and  cast  their  burthen  at  the  feet  of  him, 
who  can  alone  relieve  them. 

Refreshed  she  rose,  and  strengthened  ;  and  then,  neglecting 
the  rich  cates  and  dainties,  which  loaded  the  board,  broke  her 
fast  frugally  and  sparingly,  on  a  white  wheaten  roll,  and  a  cup 
of  pure  water.  This  done,  she  turned  to  one  of  the  tall  mir 
rors  which  hung  in  several  places  on  the  walls,  and  arranged 
her  disordered  hair  in  neat  and  modest  tresses  ;  pinned  her 
white  kerchief  closer  across  her  sloping  shoulders,  and  brought 
her  simple  yet  becoming  dress,  which  had  been  somewhat  dis 
arranged  by  the  events  and  voyage  of  the  past  night,  into  its 
wonted  state  of  graceful  neatness. 

When  she  had  done  this,  she  sat  down  quietly  beside  a  win 
dow,  which  looked  out  upon  the  tops  of  the  tall  trees  growing 
in  the  garden,  and,  having  no  other  means  of  occupation  or 
employment,  was  soon  very  busy  with  her  own  thoughts. 

And  about  what  should  her  thoughts  have  been  busy,  were 
it  not  with  the  wild  and  dark  and  terrible  events  which  had 
rendered  the  last  days  the  most  strange  and  important  of  her 
whole  life  —  how  strange,  and  how  important  she  as  yet  hard 
ly  knew  herself,  or  doubted.  And  of  whom  should  she  have 
thought  the  most  as  connected  with  all  those  dark  and  terrible 
events,  were  it  not  of  him,  who  had  behaved  throughout  all 
those  trying  scenes  with  so  much  dignity  and  courage,  so 
much  respect  and  grace,  and  generous  consideration — of 
whom,  were  it  not  of  Sir  Henry  Cecil. 

It  is  true,  lie  was  uppermost  all  the  time  in  her  mind  —  she 
strove  to  banish  his  image,  she  struggled  to  fix  her  thoughts 
v  8 


170  THE    FAIR     PURITAX. 

upon  other  matters  —  she  went  so  far  as  almost  to  reproach 
herself  with  light-mindedness  and  the  lack  of  natural  affection, 
.that  with  her  mother  scarce  yet  cold  in  her  untimely  grave, 
with  her  grandfather  a  proscribed  exile,  her  father  in  imminent 
peril  of  his  life,  her  thoughts  should  he  in  this  wise  irresistibly 
attracted  toward  a  stranger. 

Yet  it  was  all  in  vain.  The  words,  the  gestures,  the  grace 
ful  attitudes,  the  noble  form  of  the  young  soldier  would  not  be 
banished  from  the  mirror  of  her  soul  by  any  exercise  of  her 
will,  any  upbraidings  of  her  conscience.  The  clear,  sonorous 
tones  of  his  well-modulated  voice  rang  in  her  ears  incessantly 

—  the  soft  light  of  his  speaking  eyes  dwelt  in  her  very  soul. 
Arid  who  shall  wonder  and  upbraid.     When  it  is  fate,  or 

nature  —  when  it  is  licensed  even  by  the  words  of  Holy  Writ 

—  that  they  whom  God  hath  joined  together,  shall  not  be  sun 
dered  by  any  mortal  arm,  but  shall  leave  father,  mother,  all 
things,  for  each  other.      And  if  they  were  not  yet  united  in 
those  hallowed  ties  which  of  two  creatures  make  one  being — 
.if  they  had  not  yet  fully  admitted  each  one  to  his  or  her  own 

soul,  that  they  were  as  yet  heart-united  —  still  each  had  seen 
the  other  —  and  to  each  in  that  other  was  fate  fixed  for  ever. 

While  she  was  buried  yet  in  the  strange,  yet  not  unpleasing 
meditations,  a  footstep  was  heard  approaching  her  door  rapid 
ly,  when  it  had  reached  the  very  threshold  it  paused  there,  and 
no  further  sound  was  heard  for  several  seconds. 

Half-terrified,  the  fair  girl  listened,  as  if  her  very  heart  sus 
pended  on  her  sense  of  hearing.  Her  cheeks  were  suffused 
with  a  painful  blush,  her  bosom  throbbed  as  if  its  tenant  would 
have  burst  the  soft  bonds  which  enclosed  it. 

Recovering  herself,  however,  by  an  effort,  she  had  arisen 
to  her  feet,  and  made  two  steps  toward  the  door,  as  if  to  see 
who  was  the  unexpected  and  unwelcome  listener,  when  a  hesi 
tating  knock  was  stricken  on  the  stout  oak  pannel,  and,  ere 


THE    TEMPTATION.  171 

she  could  reply,  the  key  was  turned  in  the  lock,  and  the  door 
opened  from  without,  displaying,  as  it  revolved  on  its  hinges, 
the  stately  person  of  the  governor. 

"  Ha !  this  is  well,  fair  prisoner  of  mine,"  he  said  with  a 
smile,  as  he  beheld  the  preparations  laid  out  for  her  morning 
meal.  "  It  is  partly  for  this  that  I  came  hither  to  see  if  my 
brave  servants  have  ministered  sufficiently  to  all  your  wants." 

"  Far  more  than  sufficiently,"  answered  the  poor  girl,  "  to 
one  who  hath  never  tasted  of  the  wine-cup,  nor  known  so 
much  as  the  name  of  these  foreign  dainties.  Slight  fare  is 
enough,  and  more  than  enough,  for  the  poor  captive,  who  pines 
for  the  free  air  of  liberty." 

"  Do  you  so  pine,  my  gentle  maiden.  Then  I  come,  as  I 
trust,  a  right  welcome  visiter ;  for  I  come  to  communicate  with 
you  now  to  the  end  that  you  shall  be  forthwith  free  !" 

"  Welcome,  indeed  !  oh,  more  than  welcome,  noble  and  gen 
erous  sir ;  shame,  shame  on  me,  if  I  have  wronged  you  in  my 
thoughts,  and  yet — " 

"  And  dost  thou  indeed  so  pine  to  exchange  this  splendid 
chamber,  this  rich  diet,  a  life  of  ease  and  luxury,  for  those  wild 
rocks,  that  stormy  sea,  the  toils  and  hardships  among  which  I 
found  you  ?" 

"  I  do  pine,  noble  sir,  to  return  to  the  ruins  of  my  childhood's 
home  ;  I  do  pine  to  pray  again  beside  my  mother's  nameless 
grave  ;  to  comfort  my  father's  woes  ;  to  soothe  my  little  sister's 
childish  sorrow  — oh,  suffer  me,  suffer  me  to  return,  great  sir, 
and  I  will  bear  you  in  mind  ever  at  my  prayers." 

"  And  would  you  do  much,  maiden,  to  win  your  release,  to 
win  your  father's  pardon  ?" 

"  I  would  do  anything,"  she  answered  clasping  her  hands  to 
gether,  "  anything  that  I  may  do  unreproved  of  Heaven." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  or  two,  as  if  to  consider  how  ho 
might  the  most  easily  approach  his  subject. 


172  THE    FATR    PURITAN. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said,  "  listen  to  me.  I  have  dwelt  for  long  years 
in  the  noblest  court  of  Europe,  of  the  world  —  among  the  love 
liest,  the  most  beautiful  of  women,  yet,  maiden,  never  have  I 
loved  until  now.  When  first  my  eyes  beheld  you,  they  beheld 
their  fate.  I  adore  you.  Without  you  I  can  not  exist  —  be 
mine,  and  you  are  free  to-morrow  —  be  only  mine,  and  your 
father,  your  grandfather,  are  pardoned." 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him  steadfastly,  as  if  she  would 
peruse  his  soul.  "  Be  yours,''  she  answered  slowly.  "  Be 
yours.  Nobles  of  your  degree  wed  not  with  girls  of  mine  — 
how  then  shall  I  be  yours  ?" 

Even  his  cool  effrontery  was  at  fault,  and  he  hesitated  ere 
he  made  answer  — 

"  Be  mine,"  he  said,  "by  the  gentle  bonds  of  love,  not  by 
the  iron  shackles  of  this  world's  hypocritic  custom — " 

"  Silence  !"  she  cried,  interrupting  him  with  an  air  of  per 
fect  majesty.  "  Silence  !  for  shame  !  if  not  for  charity  or 
virtue!  Rather  die  all  —  father,  grandfather,  sisters,  brothers 
—  rather  pass  our  name  from  the  face  of  the  earth !  Begone  ! 
hence,  base  man  !  —  words  can  not  speak  how  I  despise  you  ! 
Begone,  wretched  man,  and  tremble  !" 

"  Nay,  tremble  rather  you  !"  he  cried,  rushing  furiously  to 
ward  her — "  for  lo !  you  are  alone,  and  in  my  power,  and  that 
you  will  not  grant  par  amours,  I  will  have  by  force  !" 

"  Never !  God  aid  me,  never !"  and  with  the  words  she 
snatched  a  long  two-edged  carving  knife  from  the  board,  and 
raised  it,  with  a  flashing  eye  and  a  lip  quivering  with  wild  en 
thusiasm.  "  Stand  off,  base  villain  !  for  if  my  hand  be  too 
weak,  as  I  think  it  is  not,  to  drive  this  steel  into  your  heart,  it 
has  the  strength  at  least  to  reach  my  own!  Stand  back  —  or 
see  me  at  your  feet,  slain  by  my  own  hand,  but  by  your 
guilty  deed  !" 

The  fierce,  strong  man  was  overcome,  but  not  melted.  —  It 


THE    CHARGES.  173 

was  dismay,  not  pity,  that  checked  him  for  one  moment.     His 

brow  grew  black  as  night,  and  his  scowling  eye  shot  forth  a 

ray  of  hellish  spite  and  fury. 

He  shook  his  clenched  hand  at  her  furiously — 

"  I  would  have  saved  you,"  he  cried,  "  but  you  would  not ! 

your  blood  be  on  your  head  !  —  blame  not  me  that  you  perish  !" 
And  he  rushed  from  the  room,  and  locked  the  door  behind 

him  as  he  left  it. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

THE    CHARGES. 

THE  rest  of  that  eventful  day,  and  the  long,  weary  night 
which  followed  it,  was  passed  by  the  gentle  and  unhappy 
maiden  in  a  state  of  mental  perturbation  and  anxiety  which  it 
were  easier  far  to  imagine  than  describe. 

As  soon  as  her  tormentor  left  her,  the  enthusiastic  courage, 
which  hud  nerved  her  for  a  moment,  failed,  and  was  instantly 
succeeded  by  that  faint  and  nerveless  exhaustion,  which  is 
often  produced  by  the  reaction  of  unwonted  mental  efforts. 

She  wept  long  and  painfully,  though  perhaps  scarcely  con 
scious  wherefore  she  was  weeping. 

Hours  elapsed  before  she  found  even  the  strength  to  fall 
upon  her  knees,  and  thank  the  Giver  of  all  good  that  he  had 
heard  her  prayer,  and  shielded  her  against  the  violence  of  the 
oppressor. 

But  when  her  heartfelt  thanksgiving  was  ended,  she  was  no 
longer  calm  and  hopeful  as  before.  Every  sound  now  came 
full  of  terror  to  her  ears.  Every  footstep  that  echoed  through 

the  long  passages  was  fraught  with  apprehensions  of  new  peril. 
P* 


174  THE    FAIR     PURITAN. 

Not  a  door  clapped,  or  a  window  rattled  in  its  frame,  but  she 
fancied  the  approach  of  her  dreaded  enemy. 

No  lights  were  brought  to  her,  nor  did  any  person  indeed 
approach  her  chamber-door  that  night,  although  full  fifty  times 
she  started  from  her  chair,  with  blanched  cheeks  and  clasped 
hands,  in  an  agony  of  consternation. 

There  was  no  means  of  securing  her  door  on  the  inside,  nor 
was  there  any  piece  of  furniture  in  the  room,  which  she  was 
able  to  move,  of  weight  sufficient  to  prevent  its  being  opened 
from  without,  during  the  hours  of  darkness. 

She  did  not  therefore  dare  to  lie  down  upon  her  bed,  or  to 
lay  aside  any  part  of  her  dress,  or  voluntarily  to  close  her 
weary  eyes. 

At  times,  indeed,  she  would  fall  into  a  troubled  and  restless 
doze,  as  she  sat  erect  in  her  chair ;  but  scarcely  had  her  mind 
lost  the  consciousness  of  her  real  position  before  a  thousand 
wild  and  hideous  phantasies  would  take  possession  of  her 
thoughts,  and  with  a  start  she  would  awake  again  to  a  sense 
of  her  helplessness  and  danger. 

Terribly  this  long  night  passed  away  ;  nor,  when  absolute 
stillness  succeeded  to  the  occasional  sounds  which  had  dis 
turbed  her  solitary  watch,  were  her  fears  less  vivid. 

Not  the  hum  of  a  musquito  in  the  silent  night  air,  not  the 
rustle  of  a  timid  mouse  behind  the  arras,  but  her  fancy  con 
jured  up  the  whispered  tones,  and  stealthy  footsteps  of  her 
persecutor. 

But  hours  of  agony,  although  protracted  to  the  utmost,  as 
well  as  the  brief  minutes  of  ecstasy,  must  have  their  end.  And 
to  poor  Ruth,  as  the  tardy  morning  crept  up  the  eastern  sky, 
and  shed  a  pale  and  ghastly  light  into  the  gorgeous  chamber, 
hope  returned,  and  a  sense  of  security  and  reliance  in  her  own 
firmness  and  fortitude. 

It  was  not,  however,  in  the  proud  mansion  of  the  royal  gov- 


THE    CHARGES.  175 

ernor,  as  in  the  humble  house  of  her  childhood,  where  the  first 
clamor,  of  the  early  cock  summoned  all  from  the  light  slumbers 
of  innocence  and  health,  and  the  dawn  never  broke  upon  sealed 
eyelids. 

Here,  though  the  usages  of  the  yet  unsophisticated  colony 
were  matutinal  and  simple,  the  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens 
before  any  stir  announced  that  the  members  of  the  household 
were  afoot,  and  about  their  wonted  avocations. 

And  when  the  sounds  of  life  were  audible,  after  the  silence 
of  the  dark,  no  step  or  voice  came  near  her  door,  until  it  was 
well-nigh  noon  ;  and  from  congratulating  herself  on  her  free 
dom  from  farther  persecution,  she  had  begun  to  feel  some  ap 
prehension  that  she  was  forgotten  intentionally,  and  left  alone 
perhaps  to  be  starved  into  compliance  with  the  unholy  will  of 
her  tormentor. 

But  even  as  this  fearful  fancy  suggested  itself  to  her  mind, 
her  confidence  in  the  support  of  Heaven,  her  gratitude  for  the 
Divine  protection  by  which  she  had  been  shielded  from  perils 
far  more  terrible  to  her  pure  soul  than  any  dread  of  death, 
were  b  no  means  diminished. 


And,  whereas  she  had  knelt  before  to  return  thanks  for  that 
protection  which  is  never  withheld  from  those  who  seek  it 
humbly  ;  she  now  mingled  with  her  morning  orisons  an  earnest 
supplication  that  strength  might  be  vouchsafed  to  her  to  resist 
the  temptations  which  she  imagined  to  be  gathering  about  her. 

Little  did  she  know  what  those  temptations  were,  or  what 
the  ordeal  to  which  she  must  be  soon  exposed. 

Just  as  the  clocks  were  striking  noon,  a  greater  bustle  was 
audible  without  the  dwelling  than  any  she  had  heard  since  her 
arrival.  The  measured  tramp  of  infantry,  the  clatter  of  ac 
coutrements  and  arms,  and  the  word  of  command  came  clearly 
to  her  ears  above  the  hum  and  clamor  of  what  seemed  to  be  a 
large  and  angry  multitude. 


i76  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

She  ran  eagerly  to  the  window  in  order  to  see  what  was 
passing,  but,  looking  out  as  it  did  upon  the  walled  garden 
only,  it  commanded  no  view  of  the  streets,  nor  gave  her  any 
opportunity  of  judging  what  might  be  the  cause  of  the  com 
motion. 

Not  long,  howeve-r,  was  she  destined  to  remain  in  ignorance. 
For  suddenly  the  measured  tramping  ceased,  and  was  followed 
by  the  heavy  clank  of  the  grounded  musket-butts  upon  the 
pavement,  as  the  men  stood  at  ease. 

A  minute  afterward,  there  was  a  stir  through  the  house  :  and 
the  loud  tread  of  many  feet  came  up  the  staircase,  and  through 
the  corridor,  and  paused  at  the  door  of  her  apartment. 

The  key  grated  in  the  wards  —  the  door  was  thrown  open, 
and  as  the  blood  rushed  back  tumultuously  to  her  heart,  leav 
ing  her  face  as  pale  as  death,  a  strange  group  was  presented 
to  her  eyes. 

The  first  person  who  entered  the  room  was  a  tall,  thin,  hard- 
favored  man,  of  sour  and  puritanic  aspect,  dressed  in  a  closely- 
fitting  suit  of  black  serge,  with  a  broad,  falling  collar  of  white 
linen,  square-toed  shoes,  a  steeple-crowned  hat,  and  a  long, 
straight  sword  suspended  from  a  girdle  of  unornamented 
leather. 

He  carried  in  his  hand  several  papers,  to  one  of  which  was 
appended  a  large  seal,  and  wore  an  air  of  harsh  and  presump 
tuous  authority  which  spoke  the  puritanic  magistrate,  as  clear 
ly  as  the  pinched,  sour  aspect  and  sanctimonious  air  of  the 
person  who  accompanied  him,  clad  in  a  rusty  suit  of  black, 
with  large  surpliced  bands,  denoted  the  intolerant  and  fanatical 
divine. 

Behind  these  personages,  a  stout,  blunt-looking  man,  with 
hard  features,  relieved  somewhat  by  an  expression  of  dogged 
honesty,  paused  on  the  threshold. 

He  wore  a  doublet  of  buff  leather,  with  a  bunch  of  keys 


THE    CHARGES.  177 

swinging  from  his  belt,  and  a  pair  of  bright  steel  manacles 
hanging  across  his  left  arm 

Behind  him,  again,  appeared  two  privates  of  the  governor's 
foot-guard,  with  their  red  cassocks,  and  bright-barrelled  mus 
kets  shouldered. 

At  first,  the  poor  maiden  stood  aghast,  and  wonder-stricken, 
at  the  appearance  of  these  strange  and  unaccountable  intruders  ; 
but  soon  perceiving,  by  the  dresses  of  the  two  principal  person 
ages  of  the  group,  that  they  were  of  her  own  creed,  and  prob 
ably  of  her  father's  political  party,  she  began  to  fancy  that  they 
were  friends,  and  that  their  errand  might  be  for  her  liberation. 

"  Oh  !  you  have  come  —  you  have  come  to  take  me  hence," 
she  cried,  clasping  her  hands  joyously  together.  "Praise  to 
thy  name,  0  Lord  !  that  thou  hast  heard  thy  servant's  prayer 
so  early,  and  set  her  free  from  this  tyranny." 

The  magistrate  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  did  not 
understand  her  ;  but,  in  a  moment,  with  a  bitter  and  sardonical 
smile  distorting  his  grim  lip  — 

"  Verily  !"  he  replied,  "  we  have  come  to  take  thee  hence, 
but  whether  it  is  cause  for  rejoicing  seems  to  me  somewhat 
more  than  doubtful.  For  it  is  not  to  set  thee  free  at  all,  but  to 
bind  thee  with  chains,  that  we  have  come,  and  thy  wrists  with 
fetters  of  iron." 

"  It  is  enough,"  answered  the  poor  girl  — "  it  is  enough  that 
you  come  to  take  me  hence  ;  the  heaviest  chains,  the  deepest 
dungeon  were  preferable  to  the  noblest  palace  halls,  where 
one  is  subject  to  the  vile  solicitations  of  that  foul  fiend  incar 
nate." 

"  She  hath  confessed  it!  Lo!  she  hath  confessed  it,  broth 
er  Boanerges  !"  exclaimed  the  magistrate,  turning  toward  his 
clerical  associate  and  adviser. 

"  All  glory  be  to  Him,  who  saith  'out  of  thine  own  mouth 
have  I  condemned  thee  !' "  cried  the  fanatic,  who  rejoiced  in 

8* 


178  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

the  euphonious  and  singularly  appropriate  appellation  of  Boan 
erges  Bangtext. 

"  Fetter  her  fast,  Mark  Holdfast  —  fetter  her  fast,  ere  the 
foul  fiend,  with  whom  she  hath  confessed  her  unholy  com 
merce,  interpose  to  preserve  her." 

The  jailer,  for  such  was  the  profession  of  the  man  in  the 
leathern  doublet,  advanced,  but  apparently  with  little  goodwill 
toward  the  task,  and  locked  the  handcuffs  round  her  slender 
wrists  —  before  she  had  recovered  her  senses  sufficiently  to 
ask  — 

"  Of  what  is  it,  then,  that  ye  accuse  me  ?  What  is  that  ye 
say  I  have  confessed  ?  Surely  I  have  confessed  nothing,  but 
that  this  base  and  carnal-minded  governor  would  have  forced 
me  to  sin  and  shame." 

"  Avaunt !  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan !"  thundered  the 
preacher — :"  Leave  turning  the  frail  wretch,  thou  hast  seduced 
from  that  better  way  to  which  she  was  inclined  !  And  do  you, 
witch  accused,  cease  from  endeavoring  to  deceive,  and  think 
not  that  denial  can  avail  thee  aught  —  nay,  rather  shall  it  gain 
thee  torments  only  that  shall  extort  once  more  the  truth." 

"  Once  more,  of  what  am  I  accused  ?"  cried  the  unhappy 
girl. 

"~Qf  witchcraft-— of  unholy  commerce  with  the  evil  one  — 
of  rescuing  by  glamorous  arts  the  bloody  regicide,  thy  grand 
father,  from  his  pursuers  —  of  summoning  up  fiends  with  hide 
ous  howls  and  groanings,  to  daunt  the  stout  heart  of  the  true 
believers.  Of  practising  strange  magic  upon  the  most  noble, 
the  vice-regal  governor;  and  last,  of  working  the  strong  man 
Henry  Cecil  to  amorous  and  lustful  admiration  of  thy  fleshly 
charms,  and  so  to  rank  rebellion  against  his  rightful  rulers — " 

"  Have  you  done  ?"  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  him  indig 
nantly,  "  or  is  there  more  of  this  foul  mummery  ?  I  see  from 
whose  quiver  this  shaft  has  been  culled  ;  and  I  see  that  the 


THE    CHARGES.  179 

aim  is  deadly  ;  yet  is  thine  eye,  O  Lord,  sleepless  to  mark  the 
innocent,  and  thy  hand  strong  to  save  the  pure  of  heart.  Lead 
me  hence,  men  of  falsehood  and  of  blood  !  Lead  me  hence,  if 
it  be  to  die,  this  instant !  Better  to  perish  at  the  stake  this 
moment,  than  to  endure  again  the  torture  of  that  bad  man's 
presence  !" 

The  priest  cast  up  his  eyes,  and  muttered  what  might  have 
been  a  prayer  for  mercy  toward  her  obdurate  and  stubborn 
heart,  but  what  sounded  far  liker  to  a  curse.  The  magistrate 
turned  up  his  hypocritic  eyes  in  silence. 

Firmly  she  passed  out  of  that  hateful  chamber,  the  jailer 
holding  her  firmly,  but  not  disrespectfully,  by  the  arm  ;  the 
guard  fell  in  around  her  ;  and  a  few  moments  only  passed  be 
fore  she  was  in  the  crowded  street,  when  all  the  force  of  the 
escort  was  needed  to  keep  back  the  infuriate  and  howling  mob, 
who,  but  for  the  armed  soldiery,  would  have  torn  the  unhappy, 
pale  girl  piecemeal. 

Men  and  boys,  maids  and  matrons,  gray -head  grenadiers  and 
little  tottering  children,  possessed  by  some  strange  frenzy, 
passed,  whooping,  yelling,  whistling,  invoking  curses  on  the 
head  of  that  innocent  young  victim,  who  smiled,  as  she  passed 
along,  serene  compassion  on  their  blind  and  senseless  frenzy  ; 
and  still  the  tumult  and  the  cry  waxed  louder  and  more  furi 
ous — 

"  To  the  fagot  and  the  stake  !  Death  to  the  witch  !  Death 
to  the  foul  fiend's  paramour  !  Hurrah  !" 

Had  there  been  far  to  go,  the  multitude  which  was  increas 
ing  every  moment,  might  well  have  prevailed  over  the  guard  ; 
but  happily  the  public  jail  was  close  at  hand,  and  the  iron 
leaves  of  its  dark  gate  was  soon  interposed  between  the  un 
happy  Ruth  and  the  brute  populace. 

Then,  when  the  doors  were  closed  and  barred  behind  her, 
the  courage  which  had  hitherto  supported  her  gave  way,  and 


180  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

-. 

she  fell  in  a  death-like  swoon  into  the  arms  of  the  blunt  jailer, 
happy  to  lose  the  consciousness  of  her  misery,  if  it  were  but 
for  one  moment. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

THE    PATRIOTS. 

IT  was  perhaps  ten  o'clock  of  the  morning  following  that  on 
which  Ruth  was  led  from  the  government-house  to  the  com 
mon  jail,  that  her  brother  Gideon  stopped  at  the  door  of  an  old 
wooden  house  on  the  common,  and  looked  about  him  rather 
anxiously,  as  if  he  were  uncertain  whether  he  had  found  the 
place  of  which  he  was  in  search. 

It  happened,  however,  that  no  person  to  whom  he  could  ap 
ply  for  information  was  passing  at  the  moment ;  and  after 
some  slight  hesitation  he  knocked  at  the  old-fashioned  hatch 
door-way. 

A  fine  and  sonorous  voice  immediately  replied  desiring  him 
to  enter,  and  as  he  did  so  he  found  a  person,  whose  appearance 
left  him  no  cause  to  doubt  that  he  had  come  aright,  sitting  alone 
in  a  small  parlor  which  communicated  with  the  hall  in  which 
he  stood. 

He  who  had  called  on  him  to  enter  was  an  exceedingly  old 
man  —  one  who  had  exceeded  by  nearly  twenty  years  the 
te'rm  of  threescore  and  ten  allotted  to  humanity  by  the  inspired 
writer ;  his  hair,  which  he  wore  very  long  and  flowing  over 
his  shoulders  was  literally  as  white  as  snow,  and  as  lustrous 
as  silver.  His  fine  calm  face  was  marked  with  many  furrows 
and  deep  lines  of  age  ;  but  the  eye  was  bright  as  some  large 
serene  star ;  and  all  the  comely  features  were  hard  and  calm, 


THE    PATRIOTS.  181 

» 

and  full  no  less  of  grand  intellect  and  moral  fortitude  than  of 
benevolence  and  a  certain  proud  humility. 

He  was  dressed  handsomely  but  very  plainly  in  a  suit  of  the 
finest  black  broadcloth,  faced  with  velvet  of  the  same  color  ; 
with  black  silk  hose,  and  silken  roses  in  his  square-toed  shoes. 
A  broad  collar  of  exquisitely  white  linen  was  folded  down  over 
the  shoulders  of  his  doublet ;  and  a  small  cap  of  black  velvet 
set  lightly  on  his  snowy  hair  completed  his  attire. 

As  Gideon  entered,  he  raised  his  large,  lustrous  eyes  from 
a  ponderous  folio  bible,  which  he  was  reading  without  glasses, 
and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  an  inquiring  expression  ; 
then  seeing  that  the  young  man  was  apparently  embarrassed, 
he  spoke  to  him  with  a  kind  and  encouraging  tone  — 

"  Ha  !"  he  said,  "  this  is  well,  young  man  ;  this  is  very  well. 
You  are  somewhat  before  your  time,  and  next  to  being  quite 
punctual,  that  is  the  best  thing.  I  did  riot  look  for  you  earlier 
than  eleven  o'clock.  So  you  wish  for  a  mate's  birth  in  the 
barge  Good  Hope.  Of  a  truth,  you  are  somewhat  young  for 
such  a  trust,  yet — " 

"  I  crave  your  pardon,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man,  who  had 
been  hitherto  unwilling  to  interrupt  one  so  many  years  his 
senior,  and  of  so  reverend  an  aspect.  "  I  think  you  are  mis 
taken,  since  you  could  not  have  looked  for  me,  nor  have  you, 
I  imagine,  so  much  as  heard  of  me  at  all  before." 

"  Then,  certainly,  I  am  mistaken,"  answered  the  old  man, 
•with  a  pleasant  smile.  "  I  thought  you  were  young  Hugh,  the 
son  of  worthy  Master  Nelson.  But  since  you  are  not  he,  pray 
tell  me  who  you  are  and  in  what  I  can  assist  you. 

"  To  begin,"  said  Gideon,  respectfully,  "  in  order  to  avoid 
further  error,  permit  me  to  ask  if  I  speak  to  the  ex-governor, 
the  good  Simon  Bradstreet  ?" 

"  My  name  is  Simon  Bradstreet;  and  I  was  governor  before 
his  majesty  was  misled  to  abrogate  our  Massachusetts  charter." 


182  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

• 

"  My  name  is  Gideon  Whalley,  replied  the  youth,  with  a 
deep,  reverential  bow  ;  "  and  but  that  I  come  to  you  on  a  sad 
errand,  and  a  bearer  of  sad  tidings,  I  were  both  proud  and 
happy  to  stand  before  a  man  whom  I  have  learned  of  rny  father 
to  revere  so  highly." 

"Alas!  all  tidings  are  sad  now-a-days.  It  is  long  since 
there  has  been  aught  of  joy  sounded  in  Boston  streets  ;  and  I 
heard  that  which  made  me  sad  but  now ;  how  they  have 
trumped  up  a  vain  charge  of  witchcraft  against  some  poor 
young  girl  or  other,  and  got  the  people  mad  between  cruelty 
and  superstition,  which  still  walk  hand  in  hand.  I  have  sent 
out  my  man  but  now  to  learn  the  particulars  ;  and  thence  it  is 
that  I  am  alone.  I  would  fain  therefore  that  your  tidings  had 
been  good.  Sit  down,  good  youth,  sit  down,  and  tell  me  all 
that  you  have  to  tell,  though  I  partly  surmise  even  now  to 
what  your  tidings  point.  You  are  the  son  of  Merciful,  the 
grandson  of  Edmund  Whalley,  one  of  the  judges  of  him  they 
call  Charles  the  Martyr." 

"  Even  sor"  answered  Gideon.  "  My  father  has  now  fled 
away,  conveying  the  aged  exile  whither  he  may  be  safe  until 
this  tyranny  be  overpast ;  and  ere  he  went  he  bade  me  come 
and  tell  you  all  that  hath  befallen  us,  and  then  do  as  you  shall 
think  good  to  direct  me." 

"  Ay  !"  answered  the  old  man  thoughtfully.  "  Ay  !  I  heard 
how  Sir  Edmund  had  taken  orders  to  arrest  your  grandsire, 
and,  whatsoever  I  may  think  of  the  justice  of  the  deed  for 
which  they  pursue  him,  I  know  that  Edward  Whalley  is  a  sin 
cere  and  upright  man  ;  I  heard  that  he  had  escaped  his  ene 
mies,  and  I  was  glad." 

"  Then  you  have  not  heard  all,  Master  Bradstreet,"  said  the 
boy,  "  or  you  would  not  be  glad.  You  have  not  heard  that 
they  have  burned  our  house  to  the  ground,  at  sight  of  which 
my  mother  died  of  a  broken  heart  in  one  moment,"  and  his 


THE    PATRIOTS.  183 

voice  faltered  as  he  spoke,  and  he  dashed  away  a  tear  with  the 
back  of  his  hand  from  his  clear  blue  eye  —  "that  they  have 
shot  our  poor  servant  Tituba,  and  carried  off  my  sister  Ruth  a 
captive." 

While  the  boy  was  speaking,  the  old  man's  face  had  been 
gradually  lighting  up  with  an  expression  of  concentrated  indig 
nation  ;  but  as  he  heard  the  last  words  the  angry  light  died 
away  in  a  minute,  and  was  supplanted  by  the  keenest  and 
most  painful  anxiety. 

"  Your  sister  Ruth!  —  a  captive  !"  he  exclaimed,  speaking 
rapidly  in  a  half-smothered  voice.  "Who  —  who?  —  speak, 
boy  !  Who  carried  her  off  captive,  and  on  what  pretext  ?" 

"  The  governor,  Sir  Edmund  Andross  —  he  who  first  burned 
our  house,  and  slew  our  mother.  God's  curse  upon  his — " 

"Hush!  hush!  —  swear  not  at  all!"  said  the  old  man  very 
solemnly,  pointing  his  hand  upward.  "  Leave  vengeance  unto 
Him.  It  is  his  :  he  will  repay  !  Yet  this  is  very,  very  dread 
ful  !  But  tell  me  on  what  pretext  ?" 

"  A  hostage  for  the  surrender  of  my  father,  within  three 
days'  space.  But  for  an  officer  they  call  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  he 
would  have  haled  her  hither,  while  our  poor  mother  lay  un- 
buried." 

"  Gracious  Lord !"  cried  the  old  man,  now  excited  beyond 
all  bounds.  "  Poor  boy,  poor  boy,  you  come  to  me  for  aid  and 
consolation,  and  I  have  but  fresh  coals  of  fire  to  heap  upon 
your  head.  It  is  your  sister,  Ruth,  of  whom  I  spake.  It  is 
she  whom  they  have  charged  with  witchcraft !  I  see,  I  see  it 
now  ;  he  hath  done  this  thing  so  to  avoid  delivering  her  up 
when  your  father  shall  return.  Tell  me,  boy,  is  your  sister 
fair?" 

"  Beautiful !  she  is  beautiful !"  exclaimed  the  boy,  aghast  at 
this  new  blow,  "  and  sweet  as  the  flowers  of  spring,  and  inno 
cent  and  gentle  as  the  saints  of  heaven  !" 


184  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

"  Oh  !  villain,  villain,  villain  !"  cried  the  old  man,  striking  his 
hands  forcibly  together,  and  speaking  to  himself,  unconscious 
for  the  moment  that  the  girl's  brother  heard  him.  "  Again  the 
old  tale,  insatiate,  ruthless  lust !  By  terror,  he  would  compel 
her  to  sin  and  shame  ;  —  but  this  time,  this  time,  help  us  only 
thou  most  Merciful — -this  time  he  shall  find  his  villany  Pt 
fault—" 

But  Gideon  had  caught  his  words,  and  jumped  instantly  at 
their  full  import.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  clinched  hand 
and  flashing  eye  — 

"  By  the  great  God,"  he  cried,  in  tones  of  solemn  fierceness, 
"  who  made  and  sees  us  both,  were  he  ten  times  the  governor, 
he  shall  die  by  my  hand  !" 

And,  with  the  words,  he  would  have  rushed  from  the  room, 
intent  on  instant  vengeance.  But  the  old  man  caught  him  by 
the  arm,  and  said  in  accents  so  impressive  that  they  awed  his 
rash  anger  into  silence. 

"Again!  again!  Is  this  your  reverence?  —  is  this  your 
obedience  ?  Hast  thou  not  read  His  awful  mandate,  '  Thou 
shalt  do  no  murder,'  presumptuous  and  wicked  boy  ?  Insane, 
moreover,  as  presumptuous  and  wicked  ;  for  to  do  any  violence 
would  doom  her,  you  would  save,  past  hope  to  the  gibbet,  if  not 
to  the  scaffold." 

"But  will  the  people,"  cried  the  boy  in  agony,  "but  will 
the  men  of  Boston  endure  to  see  this  thing  ?" 

"  I  might  reply  to  you,"  answered  the  sage,  "  that  they  have 
endured  more  than  this  already  ;  that  they  have  endured  to  be 
themselves  degraded,  almost  to  be  enslaved  !" 

"  My  poor,  poor  sister !"  cried  the  boy,  his  high  courage 
giving  away  before  this  extremity  of  evil. 

"  The  people,  the  men,  as  you  call  them,  of  Boston  are  they, 
are  the  very  men,  who  will  clamor  the  most  loudly  for  her 
doom,  if  we  can  not  arouse  them — " 


THE    PATRIOTS.  185 

"And  can  you,  great  God!  Master  Bradstreet — can  you 
arouse  them  ?" 

"  By  His  aid  who  forsaketh  not  the  just  man  at  any  time,  I 
trust  that  I  can  arouse  them." 

"  And  save  Ruth  ?"  gasped  the  boy. 

"  And  save  Ruth,  incorrupt  and  scathless." 

"  And  will  you  —  will  you  ?" 

"  The  Lord  pardon  you  the  question,"  answered  the  old  man, 
much  affected.  "  I  would  give  the  last  drop  of  blood  that  is 
left  in  this  poor  frail  body  before  one  hair  of  her  head  should 
be  corrupted.  But  now,  peace  !  peace  !  let  us  take  council 
together." 

And  for  a  few  seconds  he  paused  in  deep  thought ;  then 
suddenly  — 

"  When  will  your  father  be  here  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  This  very  night  he  promised  to  return,"  answered  the  boy. 
"  To-morrow  he  must  give  himself  up  in  exchange  for  my 
sister." 

Again  the  old  man  meditated  long  and  anxiously. 

"  Sir  Henry  Cecil !  Sir  Henry  Cecil !"  he  began  again, 
"  said  you  not  that  he  interfered  in  your  sister's  behalf?" 

"  But  for  him,"  said  the  boy,  "  Ruth  would  have  been 
dragged  away  from  our  dead  mother's  side.  He  is  good,  and 
noble  !" 

"  Yes  !  yes  !"  said  the  old  man  pensively.  "  And  he  has  re 
signed  his  commission,  they  tell  me.  Yet  the  soldiers  love 
him.  His  family,  too,  are  God-fearing  folks,  and  friends  of 
liberty  and  the  true  cause.  Yes  !  yes  !  he  will  help  us." 

At  this  moment  the  outer  door  opened,  and  a  grave-looking 
man  entered  the  room. 

"  I  have  done  your  bidding,"  he  said,  "  good  Simon.  I  have 
learned  all.  It  is — " 

"  I  also  have  learned  all !     This  is  Ruth  Whalley's  brother." 


186  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

"  But  do  you  know  that  she  shall  be  tried  to-morrow  ?  and 
that  they  are  fitting  up  a  gibbet  even  now  ?  and  that  the  people 
cry  for  her  young  blood  ?" 

"No!  no!  are  they,  indeed,  so  fierce  in  their  malignity? 
But  they  shall  be  frustrated  yet,  or  my  name  is  not  Simon 
Bradstreet.  Hark  you,  good  Andrew  !  Go  forth  again  and 
send  me  hither  Waterhouse  and  Foster,  as  quickly  as  may  be. 
And  then  go  find  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  and  pray  him  come  and 
speak  with  me  forthwith  —  and  then  go  you,  and  take  as  many 
of  your  friends  as  you  can  find,  and  spread  it  through  the 
crowd  how  Edmund  Andross  but  two  days  since  murdered 
this  poor  child's  mother,  and  now  trumps  up  this  false  charge 
against  her  to  force  her  to  become  his  concubine.  Spare 
nothing  to  excite  their  pity  ;  deal  with  the  women  chiefly  ;  and 
if  you  can  prevail  with  them  to  listen,  move  the  good  people 
to  come  and  ask  me  to  speak  to  them." 

"  I  will  perform  your  bidding,"  he  said  bluntly  ;  and,  with 
out  another  word,  departed. 

"  Fear  nothing !"  said  the  old  man,  taking  the  boy's  hand 
kindly  in  his  own  ;  "  fear  nothing  ;  we  will  save  her  at  all  haz 
ards.  Only  I  wish  this  thing  had  fallen  out  a  few  days  later." 

As  he  spoke,  the  door  was  again  thrown  violently  open,  and 
a  sea-faring  man  rushed  headlong  into  the  room  with  an  ex 
pression  of  wild,  eager  joy  in  his  bold,  sunburnt  face. 

*'  I  have  seen  it !"  he  cried.  "  I  have  seen  it !  Glory  to 
God  !  with  my  own  eyes  I  have  seen  it !" 

"  Seen  what,  Charles  Nelson  ?"  asked  Bradstreet  in  vehe 
ment  surprise,  but  with  his  whole  form  dilating,  as  it  seemed, 
under  the  influence  of  some  strong  expectation.  "  What  have 
you  seen  ?  —  speak  !" 

"  The  orange  flag  !  —  all  glory  be  to  God  !  —  the  orange  flag 
at  the  fore  !  She  is  becalmed  off  Buzzard's  bay.  And  when 
I  showed  our  friends  the  private  signal,  they  hoisted  it  at  once, 


THE    COUNCIL.  187 

but  lowered  it  again  in  a  minute.  She  will  be  here,  if  the 
wind  makes,  to-morrow  ;  but  beyond  any  doubt,  the  next  day." 

"  The  Lord  hath  stretched  out  his  hand  ;  the  Lord  hatK 
saved  his  servants  !  Down  on  your  knees,  Charles  Nelson. 
Down  on  your  knees,  Gideon  Whalley.  Let  us  pray  !  Let 
us  praise  the  Lord  who  has  wrought  this  deliverance  for 
Israel/' 

And  though  he  knew  not,  nor  could  at  all  divine  the  mean 
ing  of  that  venerable  man's  strange  words,  the  boy  hesitated 
not,  but  fell  down  upon  his  knees,  and  clasped  his  hands  fer 
vently  together,  so  certain  was  he,  from  those  impassioned 
tones,  that  some  great  thing  was  indeed  accomplished,  and 
praised  the  Lord  in  the  strength  of  a  confiding  faith,  ignorant 
wherefore. 

And  in  truth  a  great  thing  had  been  accomplished ;  nor  was 
his  faith  in  vain.  Is  it  vain  ever  1 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

THE    COUNCIL. 

THE  morrow  had  arrived — the  fatal  morrow  ! 

The  court  was  assembled  which  were  that  day  to  decide 
upon  the  fate  of  the  young,  the  innocent,  the  beautiful  Ruth 
Whalley.  O  mockery !  O  shame  !  to  speak  of  deciding  that 
which  was  determined  so  soon  as  the  accusation  was  pre 
ferred. 

Had  the  accusers  not  been  the  creatures  of  the  brutal  and 
licentious  governors  ;  had  the  witnesses  not  been  to  a  man 
suborned  to  perjury  ;  had  the  judges  not  been  to  a  man  the 
sycophantic  nominees  and  pliant  tools  of  Andross  ;  still  was 


188  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

the  fate  of  Ruth  determined  or  ere  she  was  brought  to  trial  — 
for  fanaticism  and  superstitious  awe,  and  credulous  terror  — 
than  which  there  is  no  passion  of  the  human  heart  so  cruel  — 
had  maddened  and  hardened  the  hearts  of  the  people,  and  to  be 
accused  of  witchcraft  was  in  fact  to  be  condemned  without 
trial  —  to  be  slaughtered  without  respite  or  appeal. 

But  on  that  morning  there  had  assembled  beside  the  court 
another  and  a  nobler  council. 

In  the  rear  of  Simon  Bradstreet's  garden,  and  adjoining  one 
of  the  principal  wharfs  of  the  city  stood  a  long,  half-deserted 
warehouse,  with  a  private  entrance  from  a  blind  and  unfre 
quented  alley.  Above  it,  in  the  third  story,  ceiled  with  the 
rude,  bare  rafters,  wainscotted  with  rough,  unplaned  boards, 
lighted  only  by  a  skylight,  for  the  three  dormer  windows,  to 
the  sills  of  each  of  which  was  attached  a  large  telescope,  were 
closely  shuttered  so  as  to  exclude  alike  both  prying  eyes  of 
humanity,  and  the  garish  light  of  day,  was  a  large  loft  sometimes 
used  by  the  old  patriot  as  an  observatory. 

In  that  apartment  was  the  patriot-council  assembled.  And 
yet  so  singular  and  so  desolate  was  the  whole  aspect  of  that 
apartment,  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  charts  which  hung 
here  and  there  against  the  panelling,  and  for  the  globes  and 
large  telescopes  which  stood  on  elevated  stands  in  various 
parts  of  its  ample  area,  it  might  well  have  given  rise  to  sus 
picion. 

The  sun  had  not  long  risen,  when  the  party  which  I  have 
mentioned,  came  together  in  that  place,  so  well  fitted  for  that 
purpose. 

For  that  party  consisted  of  the  patriots,  or  liberty-men,  of 
Boston,  and  that  purpose  was  the  emancipation  of  their  native 
province  at  once  from  the  domestic  tyranny  of  the  oppressor 
Andross,  and  the  bigoted  and  despotical  sway  of  England's 
second  James. 


THE    COUNCIL.  189 

In  the  arm-chair,  at  the  head  of  the  board,  clad  as  he  was 
on  the  previous  day,  sat  Simon  Bradstreet,  worthy,  by  virtue 
of  his  great  intellect  as  of  his  long  experience,  to  be  the  presi 
dent  of  such  a  meeting.  Next  to  him,  on  the  right,  sat  stout 
Charles  Nelson,  the  bold,  hardy  seaman,  who  had  brought  the 
glad  tidings  to  old  Bradstreet ;  and  below  him,  and  opposite, 
at  the  president's  left,  two  well-known  and  much-esteemed 
citizens,  Foster  and  Waterhouse,  who  had  been  colonels  in 
the  old  Boston  train-bands. 

Besides  these,  several  other  aged  men,  magistrates  of  the 
city,  under  the  old  charter,  were  seated  at  the  board,  and  be 
low  them,  two  or  three  stout  youths,  among  whom  Gideon 
Whalley  was  perhaps  the  most  remarkable. 

All  these  men  were  dressed  simply,  some  in  the  garb  of 
merchants  and  lawyers,  others  in  the  every-day  apparel  of 
artisans,  mechanics,  and  sea-faring  men  ;  and  it  was  remark 
able,  that,  at  a  time  when  all  persons  who  laid  any  claim  to 
gentle  birth  or  station  wore  swords  as  a  part  of  their  ordinary 
dress,  with  one  exception  only,  there  was  not  a  weapon  of  any 
kind  in  the  room. 

That  one  exception  concerned  a  person  who  occupied  the 
seat  facing  Simon  Bradstreet,  and  whom  I  have  not  as  yet 
described.  Nor,  in  truth,  is  any  description  of  him  necessary, 
for  it  is  none  other  than  our  old  friend  Sir  Henry  Cecil. 

He  was  attired  with  his  wonted  elegance  and  care,  although 
no  longer  in  a  military  habit.  His  long,  curled,  and  perfumed 
hair,  his  velvet  coat  with  diamond  buttons,  his  red-heeled 
shoes,  and  gold-hilted  small  sword,  presenting  a  singular  con 
trast  to  the  cropped  hair  and  plain,  sad-colored  clothes  of  the 
steady  burghers. 

The  council  had,  it  would  seem,  been  for  some  time  in  ses 
sion,  for  Bradstreet  was  saying,  apparently  in  conclusion  of  an 
important  debate  — 


190  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

"  We  understand  one  another,  therefore,  perfectly.  We  may 
depend  fully  on  your  influence  and  success  with  the  soldiers, 
Sir  Henry  Cecil." 

"  Under  the  circumstances  you  have  stated,  certainly  !"  re 
plied  the  young  gentleman.  "  But  you  must  understand  me 
fully,  too.  I  must  be  made  certain  beyond  the  possibility  of 
doubt,  not  only  that  William  of  Orange  has  landed  in  England, 
but  that  he  is  acknowledged  the  king,  and  that  James  has  fled 
the  land.  I  will  support  the  government  of  England  at  all 
hazards,  nor  will  I  stir  a  hand  to  aid  any  rising  here  against 
the  mother-country.  I  do  not  reflect  upon  those  who  may 
wish  to  do  so  —  but  England  is  my  country,  and  England's 
king  is  my  king.  I  may  wish  that  William  were  that  king 
rather  than  James  ;  and  were  I  at  home,  might  strive  to  have 
it  so.  But  being  here,  and  knowing  how  a  premature  effort 
may  disconcert  the  wisest  plans,  I  will  be  a  good  subject  to 
James  until  I  shall  know  that  William  is  my  king  de  facto." 

"  You  are  wise,  although  young,  Sir  Henry,  and  you  speak 
very  well,"  answered  Bradstreet,  calmly  ;  "  and  in  all  that  you 
have  said,  I  think  you  are  quite  right — but  William  of  Nassau 
is  now  William  of  England,  that  I  know ;  and  ere  this  time 
to-morrow  you  shall  know  it  likewise.  You  would  have  known 
it  now,  but  that  this  rascal  Andross  has  intercepted  your  des 
patches — " 

"  Indeed,  indeed  —  do  you  know  that?" 

"  I  know  the  man  who  has  seen  and  read  them." 

"  It  may  be  so,  indeed,"  answered  Cecil,  thoughtfully. 

"  It  is  so,"  replied  the  old  man.  "  Andross  is  well  assured, 
even  now,  of  the  news  which  this  vessel  brings.  She  will  be 
boarded  in  the  outer  bay,  and  the  messenger  made  a  prisoner. 
But  he  will  be  re-captured  from  the  pinnace  ;  will  he  not, 
Master  Nelson  ?  The  troops  will  be  under  arms  ;  but  we 
have  troops  also,  ha  !  Masters  Waterhouse  and  Foster  ?  We 


THE    COUNCIL.  191 

will  not  ask  you  to  stir  hand  or  foot,  Sir  Henry,  until  you  shall 
have  seen  the  proclamation  of  the  kings  William  and  Mary. 

—  Then  we  will  claim  your  services." 

"  And  you  shall  have  them.  Let  me  but  see  that,  and  I  will 
answer  for  it  that  not  a  trooper  shall  draw  a  trigger  on  the 
people." 

"  And  if  they  do,  may  God  help  them  !"  said  Waterhouse 
sternly. 

"And  if  they  do,  may  God  defend  the  right!"  said  Sir 
Henry,  solemnly. 

"  And  which  will  be  the  right,  Sir  Henry  ?"  asked  Foster, 
with  a  smile  ;  not  that  he  doubted  or  misunderstood  the  young 
man,  but  that  he  saw  a  cloud  on  the  brows  of  some  of  his  con 
federates,  and  feared  any  misconception. 

"  The  cause  of  the  king  and  the  people  !"  answered  the 
noble  soldier.  "The  cause  of  England  and  America! — not 
of  Rome  !  The  cause  of  King  William  and  Simon  Bradstreet ! 

—  not  of  King  James  and  Edmund  Andross  !" 

At  these  stirring  and  spirited  words,  there  was  an  evident 
disposition  to  cheer,  among  some  of  the  younger  men  present; 
but  it  was  checked  instantly  by  the  graver  and  more  wary 
leaders. 

"  All  then  is  understood  touching  this  matter  ?"  asked  old 
Simon. 

"  All !"  replied  Henry  Cecil ;  and  "  All !  all !  clearly  !  with 
out  doubt !"  was  re-echoed  from  every  side  of  the  apartment. 

"  And  now,"  said  Bradstreet,  "touching  this  poor  girl — " 

"  Villain  and  tyrant  as  he  is,  I  can  not  think,"  answered 
Cecil,  "  that  he  will  break  his  faith  so  basely.  He  pledged  his 
word  to  me,  that  on  her  father's  surrender  to  the  hands  of  jus 
tice,  Ruth  should  go  free.  I  can  not  think — " 

"  And  for  your  thinking,  or  not  thinking,  shall  my  sweet 
sister  die  ?"  Gideon  Whalley  interrupted  him  rudely.  But 


192  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

the  young  soldier  looked  at  him  with  an  eye  both  compas 
sionate  and  full  of  grave  dignity,  and  paused  before  he  an 
swered — 

"  I  understand  your  anxiety,  good  youth.  But  come  what 
may  of  it,  your  sister  will  not  die,  or  I  will  not  be  living.  I 
shall  deem  it  no  wrong  to  interrupt  the  execution  of  your  sister 
on  any  sentence  for  witchcraft  by  the  strong  hand,  let  who 
may  be  the  king,  or  who  may  be  the  governor.  And  that  not 
because  she  is  your  sister,  or  because  she  is  Ruth  Whalley ; 
for,  as  God  is  my  judge,  I  would  have  done  the  same  for  any 
one  of  those  poor  wretches  who  were  so  barbarously  murdered 
at  Salem  under  the  plea  of  law,  had  I  been  in  the  province. 
Moreover,  I  have  a  hundred  stout  veterans,  who  have  served 
under  me  in  other  lands,  and  in  hotter  feuds  than  this  is 
like  to  be,  who  will  stand  by  me  to  the  last,  if  I  give  the 
word,  I  well  believe,  in  any  cause,  in  any  righteous  cause  I  am 
certain." 

"  And  will  you  give  the  word,  Sir  Henry  ?"  cried  Gideon 
Whalley  eagerly. 

"  So  surely  as  I  shall  see  need  for  it.  But  I  still  hope,  and 
still  believe,  that  without  stroke  of  sword,  or  drop  of  bloodshed, 
this  great  crime  may  be  averted  from  the  people — this  great 
peril  from  your  sister." 

"  Amen  !"  replied  the  venerable  patriot,  bowing  his  head  in 
approval.  "  Amen,  so  be  it !  and  in  what  does  your  hope  rely, 
for  though  you  may  hope  and  believe  religiously  in  the  faith 
of  divine  things  unseen,  you  are  too  wise  I  think,  in  the  things 
of  this  world,  and  its  every-day  workings,  to  hope  much  or  be 
lieve  anything  without  warrant.  In  what,  then,  doth  your  hope 
reside  ?" 

"  In  the  might  of  the  right  —  in  the  overruling  majesty  and 
weight  of  the  English  law  —  in  the  honor  of  English  judges. 
I  will  myself  be  in  court  within  an  hour,  who  was  a  witness 


THE    COUNCIL.  193 

on  the  spot,  and  can  adduce  such  evidence  of  this  bad  man's 
daring  guilt,  and  deliberate  falsehood,  that  for  their  souls  they 
dare  not  convict  her  !'' 

"  You  lean  upon  a  broken  reed,  Sir  Henry,"  said  Bradstreet. 
"  Think  you  that  juries,  whose  fears  have  made  them  mad 
men — judges  who  have  received  the  wages  of  blood,  and 
agreed  to  condemn  the  innocent  before  trial  —  care  one  straw 
either  for  evidence  or  law  ?" 

"  Moreover,  look  at  this,  Sir  Henry  Cecil,"  said  Waterhouse, 
throwing  a  paper  on  the  table.  "  I  saw  the  original  document 
an  hour  ago,  of  which  that  is  the  copy.  See  if  you  can  go 
into  court." 

It  was  a  council-warrant  for  the  arrest  of  Sir  Henry  Cecil, 
on  charges  of  insubordination  and  high  treason. 

The  paper  fell  from  the  hands  of  the  young  soldier,  and  he 
gazed  round  the  room  in  angry  wander. 

"  His  plans  are  well  arranged,"  he  said,  at  length. 

"  Whose  plans?"  asked  Merciful  Whalley,  almost  fiercely. 

"  The  governor's  !"  replied  Cecil. 

"  Here  is  the  governor  of  Boston,"  said  the  Puritan,  laying 
his  broad  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  old  Simon  Bradstreet.  — "  As 
I  came  up  the  bay,  ere  it  was  light  this  morning,  returning 
from  New  Haven,  I  boarded  the  good  ship  Two-Friends  at 
anchor.  The  wind  that  brought  me  up  was  too  light  to  carry 
her  against  the  tide  of  ebb.  I  saw  the  messenger  who  bears 
the  glorious  tidings.  God  hath  looked  down  upon  his  people  ! 
This  tyranny  is  overpast !  William  and  Mary  are  the  kings 
of  England  !  James  Stuart  hath  fled  without  stroke  of  sword  ! 
Our  charter  is  restored!  —  and  noble  Simon  Bradstreet  is  the 
governor  of  Boston !  Letters,  good  master  Bradstreet !  Let 
ters,  Sir  Henry  Cecil !" 

And,  with  the  word,  he  threw  down  several  large  packets 
on  the  board. 

R  9 


194  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

A  moment  was  enough  to  satisfy  Sir  Henry.  He  cast  a 
quick  glance  toward  the  venerable  patriot. 

"  It  is  all  true,"  he  said.  "  The  Lord  be  praised.  I  am  the 
first  to  tender  you  my  service  and  my  sword,"  he  continued, 
taking  off  his  hat  and  unsheathing  his  bright  blade  — "  I  await 
your  orders." 

"  They  are  brief,  Sir  Henry,  and  easily  obeyed,"  answered 
the  old  man,  with  a  smile.  "  You  must  tarry  here  all  this  day, 
in  concealment.  He  must  not  arrest  you  or  your  friend  Whal- 
ley,  here,  to-day,  on  any  account,  and  to-morrow " 

"  He  may  arrest  whom  he  can !"  interrupted  Waterhouse, 
bluntly. 

"Even  so,"  replied  Bradstreet.  "And  now,  to  make  all 
certain,  go  you,  my  good  friend,  and  have  your  regiment  ready 
to  act  at  a  minute's  notice.  Let  them  be  on  the  common  well 
armed  at  the  first  clang  of  the  statehouse  bells.  You,  Nelson, 
know  your  duty  !  You,  Foster,  have  all  the  train-bands  in  prep 
aration  at  midnight,  but  show  no  force  until  the  signal !  Who 
is  to  lead  the  soldiers  from  Charlestown  and  Chelsea  ?" 

"  Shepherd,  the  schoolmaster  of  Lynn  !"  answered  Water- 
house. 

"  None  better,"  answered  Bradstreet.  "  Farewell,  then,  all ! 
To  your  posts  —  be  prudent  —  peaceful,  and  silent!  So  all 
will  certainly  go  well !  Ha  !  what  now,  Andrew  ?"  he  con 
tinued,  as  the  old  servant  entered  the  room  cautiously,  and  with 
a  sad  expression  in  his  face. 

"The  court  is  dissolved  —  the  maid  Ruth  is  condemned! 
The  governors  assent  is  given  !  She  shall  be  hanged  at  noon 
to-morrow." 

"  That  she  shall  not,"  said  Bradstreet.  "  At  what  time, 
Merciful  Whalley,  will  the  Two-Friends  weigh  anchor  ?" 

"  When  the  breeze  rises,  which  it  will  with  the  evening 
tide  of  flood  at  nine  of  the  clock.  She  will  be  here  in  the 


THE    PRISON.  195 

morning  twilight  —  but  the  Rosebud,  the  pinnace,  lies  just  be 
low  the  castle.'5 

"Will  there  be  much  wind,  Whalley  ?"  asked  Charles 
Nelson. 

"  A  topsail  breeze  I  will  a-warrant  it ;  and  like  enough  a 
capful !" 

"  Then  I  will  answer  for  the  pinnace,"  said  the  other. 

"  And  I  will  answer,  by  God's  grace,"  said  Bradstreet,  "  that 
before  noon,  Sir  Edmund  Andross  shall  hang  no  one  !" 

"Unless  it  be  himself!"  added  Waterhouse  ;  and  with  a 
grim  laugh  the  council  was  dissolved. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

THE    PRISON. 

THE  night  had  set  in  dark  and  gloomy.  The  sky  was  over 
cast  with  heavy  clouds  driving  in  from  the  seaward  rapidly  ; 
and  a  thin  small  rain  fell  noiselessly,  as  is  usual  at  the  com 
mencement  of  a  blow  from  the  southeast.  The  streets  of 
Boston  were,  however,  if  not  crowded,  at  the  least  far  more 
frequented  than  was  common  at  so  late  an  hour,  and  in  weath 
er  so  inclement.  For  it  was  nearly  midnight,  and  far  from 
abating,  the  storm  appeared  to  increase  every  moment.  The 
people  in  the  streets  also  seemed  to  become  more  numerous 
instead  of  dispersing  for  the  night ;  and  there  was  singularly 
restless  and  uneasy  state  of  feelings  made  manifest  by  every 
word  and  movement  of  the  gathering  groups. 

It  was  not  exactly  what  would  be  called  excitement,  much 
less  was  it  turbulence  or  riot ;  for  there  was  no  general  noise, 
nor  indeed  any  loud  talking  ;  but  there  was  an  air  of  gloom  and 
discontent  very  nearly  universal ;  and  it  would  seem  that  the 


196  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

authorities  had  taken  the  alarm,  for  in  addition  to  the  ordinary 
watch,  who  were  out  in  their  full  strength,  several  small  par 
ties  of  soldiers  were  abroad,  patrolling  the  streets,  though  they 
interfered  with  no  one  ;  and  it  was  rumored  that  there  were 
douhle  sentries  at  the  guard-house,  and  that  the  men  were 
mustered  under  arms  in  the  castle. 

It  was  about  the  prison-doors,  however,  that  the  greatest 
number  of  persons  were  assembled;  and  here  alone  there 
might  be  said  to  be  a  throng  ;  and  that  throng  somewhat  loud 
and  tumultuous,  though  still  peaceable  ;  indeed,  what  noise 
there  was,  seemed  to  proceed  rather  from  a  confusion  of  eager 
queries  and  replies,  than  from  any  riotous  disposition  of  the 
people;  and  the  two  sentinels,  who  walked  to  and  fro.  before 
the  heavy  gates,  had  found  no  difficulty  in  keeping  the  space 
clear,  which  they  were  stationed  there  to  defend. 

Midnight  had  struck  some  time,  when  a  tall  man,  wearing 
a  slouched  hat  and  wrapped  in  a  thick  cloak,  made  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  not  without  some  exertion,  although  he  was 
preceded  by  two  peace  officers,  and  followed  by  a  subaltern's 
guard. 

As  he  entered  the  clear  space,  however,  before  the  prison 
gates,  which  was  dimly  illuminated  by  a  large  lamp,  he  was 
recognised  by  the  people  for  the  governor,  and  room  was  made 
for  him  immediately.  There  was  no  cheering  from  any  of  the 
crowd,  which  was  composed  for  the  most  part  of  well-clad, 
substantial  looking  burghers  an'd  mechanics  ;  but  there  was  no 
disposition  to  insult  him  shown  by  any  one,  nor  did  they  man 
ifest  their  disapprobation  by  groans  or  hisses.  If  they  were 
angry,  it  was  with  that  calm,  resolute,  and  determined  wrath, 
which  is  ten  thousand  times  more  dangerous,  because  it  is  so 
silent  and  so  thoughtful. 

The  regular  formalities  having  been  executed,  the  pass 
word  demanded  and  given,  and  an  order  from  the  proper  mag- 


THE    PRISON.  197 

istrate  displayed,  the  governor  entered  the  prison-door  alone, 
his  escort  standing  at  ease,  with  their  muskets  grounded  in 
front  of  the  gate,  between  the  two  sentinels  and  the  people. 
So  long  a  time  elapsed  that  the  crowd,  unexcited  by  any  new 
event,  began  to  drop  away  one  by  one  ;  and  then  after  a  while 
some  whispered  word  ran  through  the  scattered  groups  which 
alone  remained,  and  thereupon  they  also  hurried  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  harbor,  and  left  the  front  of  the  prison,  deserted 
by  all  but  the  watchmen  and  soldiery. 

Within  that  cheerless  building,  in  a  small  stone  cell,  with  a 
single  grated  window,  a  pallet  bed,  one  chair,  and  a  small 
table,  whereon  were  placed  a  lamp,  an  open  bible  and  a  stone 
jug  of  water,  sat  Ruth  Whalley. 

She  had  been  brought  thither  sometime  before  noon,  from 
the  court-house,  where,  in  the  space  of  less  than  three  hours, 
she  had  been  tried,  convicted,  sentenced  to  die  for  witchcraft, 
and  left  from  that  hour  until  now,  alone  and  un visited  by  any 
one  but  the  jailer. 

She  was  to  die  at  noon  on  the  morrow. 

To  die  !  It  is  a  dark  and  fearful  thing  to  die,  even  for  those 
who  are  aweary  of  their  lives  ;  who  have  proved  all  the  dis 
appointments,  the  vanities,  the  woes  of  human  life  ;  who  look 
upward  from  a  world  of  anguish  and  of  sin,  to  one  of  immortal 
purity  and  bliss. 

What  must  it  be  then  to  one  in  the  first  flower  of  youth  and 
health,  and  beauty,  with  all  the  fresh  world  bright,  before  her. 

Even  when  honored  and  beloved,  full  of  years  and  glory, 
surrounded  by  troops  of  weeping  and  adhering  friends,  it  is  a 
difficult  thing  to  die  !  Even  to  him,  who  is  powerless,  friend 
less,  hopeless,  alone  on  a  foreign  land,  all  human  pleasures 
melted  and  weighed  and  found  wanting,  still  it  is  difficult  to 
die — how  bold  the  heart,  how  firm  the  faith  soever,  there  is 

yet  something  in  the  mysterious  void,  whence  no  voice  hath 
R* 


198  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

ever  come  to  tell  its  secrets  —  something  which  the  soul  burns 
to  know,  yet  coldly  shrinks  from  knowing ! 

What  must  it  be,  then,  to  die,  a  death  of  agony,  of  shame, 
of  horror  —  a  felon's  death  on  a  gibbet?  And  that  for  one  so 
young,  so  tender,  arid  so  untried,  in  the  world's  school  of  tor 
ture  ?  What  to  look  forward  for  long  hours  to  such  a  fate, 
alone,  unsupported  by  a  single  friend,  unwept,  unprayed  for, 
unconsoled  ? 

Can  mind  of  man  imagine  aught  more  terrible  ? 

Yet  this  was  the  condition  in  which  that  beautiful,  pale 
maiden  had  sate  there  alone  since  morning.  Hearing  the 
strokes  of  the  fatal  bell,  each  stroke  proclaimed  that  her  life 
was  ebbing  fast  away,  fast  as  the  sands  in  the  glass  of  time. 

It  is  a  strange  thing,  that  it  is  often  the  weakest  and  frailest 
natures  which  support  trials,  not  moral  only,  but  physical,  such 
as  are  generally  supposed  to  require  physical  power  to  sustain 
them,  better  and  with  more  fortitude  than  sterner  and  more 
hardy  characters. 

So  it  was  with  Ruth  Whalley. 

At  first  she  had  been  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  the  false 
charge,  the  mass  of  perjured  evidence,  the  cruel  and  iniquitous 
proceedings,  the  dark,  disgraceful  sentence  —  she  had  been 
stupefied  and  unable  to  comprehend  that  she  was  indeed  to 
die  —  to  die  a  felon's  death  on  the  morrow.  Slowly  and 
gradually  the  dreadful  truth  dawned  on  her — and  for  a  while 
she  wept,  wept  bitterly  in  terror  and  regret  —  in  terror  of  her 
awful  doom,  regret  for  the  vain  promise  of  her  untimely-ended 
youth. 

But  it  was  not  long  that  she  yielded  to  that  weakness.  —  She 
called  to  mind  the  glorious  promises  of  the  Redeemer,  and  she 
turned  the  eyes  of  her  mind  witli  a  gaze  so  steady  to  that  ex 
ceeding  great  reward,  which  the  Almighty  has  himself  re 
vealed,  as  awaiting  those  who  are  prosecuted  for  his  sake, 


THE    PRISON.  199 

that  all  the  terrors  of  the  brief  passage  from  time  into  eternity, 
all  the  weak  ties  that  bound  her  to  this  earthly  sphere,  were 
unseen  and  unheeded. 

For  all  the  proffered  consolations,  to  all  the  kind  inquiries 
of  the  blunt  but  kind-hearted  keeper,  who  wept  for  her  as  if 
she  had  been  his  own  child,  she  had  but  one  answer  — 

"  She  needed  nothing  —  she  feared  nothing — she  was  ex 
ceeding  happy." 

So  passed  the  day,  neither  fast  to  her  nor  slowly,  so  steady 
was  her  pulse,  so  confident  her  gentle  spirit. 

She  had  eaten  of  her  prison  fare  ;  she  had  taken  her  leave 
of  this  world  ;  she  was  in  peace  with  all  mankind  ;  she  put 
her  whole  trust  in  the  mercy  of  her  Redeemer ;  in  a  few  little 
hours  she  was  once  more  to  be  with  her  dear  mother,  never 
again  to  sorrow  or  to  sin. 

Why  should  she  not  sleep  soundly  ? 

She  had  bound  up  her  beautiful  fair  hair,  and  was  about  to 
seek  her  lowly  pallet  for  her  last  sleep  save  one  ;  but  she  had 
yet  to  undergo  one  trial. 

The  door  of  her  cell  opened  and  closed  suddenly,  giving 
admittance  to  a  tall  man,  whose  form  and  face  were  both 
muffled  in  the  folds  of  a  dark  cloak. 

But  muffled  as  he  was,  Ruth  knew  him  on  the  instant  as  by 
a  fearful  instinct,  and  shrank  back  with  dread  into  the  farthest 
angle  of  her  prison. 

"  Do  you  fear  me,  pretty  Ruth  ?"  said  her  tormentor. 

"  Should  I  not  fear  you  ?"  answered  the  hapless  girl.  "  You 
who,  for  your  mere  pleasure,  have  slain  or  banished  all  my 
kindred  ;  and  now  have  slain  me  also  with  a  lie." 

"  Hard  words,  Ruth !"  said  the  governor,  for  he  it  was  who 
had  come  to  trouble  her  last  hours.  "  Do  you  not  fear  to  use 
such  terms  to  me  ?" 

"  What  should  I  fear —  I  who  shall  die  to-rnorrow  ?" 


200 


THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 


"  Ay  !  die,  and  that  before  another  sunset." 

"  What,  I  say,  should  I  fear  ?  you  can  do  me  no  ill  more 
than  you  have  done." 

"  Perhaps,  I  can  do  you  good." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  answered  calmly.  "  But  if  you  can,  you 
will  not.  Wherefore,  I  pray  you,  trouble  me  no  farther.  If  I 
have  wronged  you,  you  have  your  revenge — to  triumph  over  a 
weak  girl  is  pitiful ;  I  pray  you  leave  me." 

Even  the  insolent  and  brutal  Andross  was  staggered  by  her 
gentle  and  serene  fortitude  ;  and  it  was  a  moment  before  he 
was  collected  enough  to  ask  her  in  a  voice  half-trembling, 
half-admiring  — 

"  Do  you  not  fear  to  die  ?" 

"  No  !     Can  you  say  as  much,  and  truly  ?" 

"  You  must,  I  think,  desire  it,  that  you  dare  thus  taunt  one 
who  has  the  power  to  smite  or  to  spare." 

"There  is  but  O.NE  who  hatli  that  power;  and  to  him  I 
have  resigned  myself  already.  If  it  be  his  will  that  I  perish, 
thou,  vain  man,  hast  no  power  to  spare.  If  he  stretch  out  his 
arm  to  save  I  shall  not  fall  for  all  thy  writing." 

"  Dost  thou  desire  to  die,  then,  that  you  so  scorn  me  ?" 

"  I  scorn  no  man,  no  creature  of  his  hand,"  she  answered 
calmly  ;  and  then  added,  "  What  I  desire  signifies  nothing  — 
but  no  living  thing  desires  to  die  that  is  in  health  and  reason." 

"  Ha  !  you  relent,  pretty  one !  I  thought  your  boasting  was 
too  loud  to  be  lasting,"  answered  the  tyrant,  with  a  coarse  and 
triumphant  laugh.  "  And  would  you  do  aught,  my  sweet  saint, 
to  escape  hanging ;  you  may  yet  go  free,  if  you  are  wise  and 
gentle." 

"  I  would  do  aught,"  she  answered,  "  that  is  lawful.  See 
ing  that  I  have  no  right  to  advance  my  appointed  hour  by  one 
minute.  But  this  avails  nothing.  You  have  not  come  this 
night  to  spare  me." 


THE    PRISON.  201 

"  By  my  honor  !  — by  my  soul !  —  I  have  come  for  no  other 
purpose  !  You  are  too  young,  too  fair,  too  innocent,  to  die.  I 
have  come  to  spare  you." 

Her  pale  cheek  was  flushed  for  one  moment,  her  eye  was 
kindled  with  a  ray  of  hope.  She  clasped  her  hands,  and 
spoke,  no  longer  firmly,  but  in  a  tremulous  and  agitated  voice  — 

"  You  can  not  —  no,  you  can  not  be  mocking  me  !"  she  said. 
"  No  man  could  mock  a  woman  at  such  an  hour  as  this. — 
What  must  I  do,  that  you  shall  spare  me  ?" 

"  That  which  I  asked  of  you,  the  last  time  we  met,"  he  an 
swered  triumphantly  ;  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  drew  nearer  to 
her,  confident  that  she  was  on  the  point  of  yielding.  — "  Grant 
me  that,  and  you  live  !  refuse  me,  and  you  die  !  Your  an 
swer  ?" 

"  I  would  have  died  then,  by  my  own  hand,  rather  than 
yield,  or  grant  it !  Are  you  answered  ?" 

"  Ha  !  is  it  so,  proud  wench  ?''  he  cried,  furious  at  finding 
himself  frustrated,  when  he  deemed  success  certain.  "  By 
Him  who  made  me,  you  shall  yield  it  now,  and  yet  die  to-mor 
row.  There  are  no  knives  here,  whether  for  my  heart  or  your 
own." 

And  with  the  words,  he  rushed  furiously  toward  her. 

Hopeless  of  aid,  and  in  extremity  of  terror,  the  miserable 
girl  uttered  a  shriek,  so  loud,  so  full  of  agony  and  horror,  that 
the  stout  soldiers  started  at  their  posts  without  the  gates,  and 
trembled. 

And  though  she  looked  for  no  aid,  it  came,  instant,  in  time 
to  save. 

The  door  flew  open,  and  the  stout  jailer  entered,  quiet  and 
grave,  though  with  an  angry  flush  on  his  blunt  brow,  and  a 
fierce  spark  in  his  deep  gray  eye.  He  held  in  his  left  hand  a 
heavy  partisan  ;  and  two  large  horse-pistols  were  stuck  in  his 
leathern  girdle. 


202  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

"  Sir  Edmund  Andross,"  he  said  firmly,  "  my  prisoners  aro 
under  my  charge  —  and  my  charge  alone,  until  the  time  arrive 
when  I  must  yield  them  to  the  sheriff.  Until  that  time  come, 
no  man  shall  wrong  them." 

"£Aa//.?"  exclaimed  Andross,  haughtily.  "  Shall  to  me? 
Are  you  mad,  fellow  ?  —  know  you  to  whom  you  speak  ?" 

"  Yes  !  shall  to  you,  Sir  Edmund,  when  I  am  in  my  place, 
and  you  out  of  yours.  Mad  !  no,  I  trow,  not  I.  And  for  know 
ing —  I  know  well  that  you  are  an  English  governor,  and  I  a 
Yankee  jailer.  What  of  that  ?  I  do  my  duty  :  you  have  for 
gotten  yours.  But  enough  of  this — lock-up  hours  are  past; 
and  you  stay  here  no  longer.  I  think  your  honor" — and  he 
laid  an  ironical  emphasis  on  the  word  —  "had  better  withdraw 
peacefully.  If  not,  I  call  the  prison-watch,  and  enforce  your 
departure." 

Andross  scowled  on  him  furiously  ;  but  though  his  soul  was 
full  of  fierce  and  fiery  hate,  and  threatening  words  were  burn 
ing  on  his  tongue,  he  had  enough  of  reason  left  to  perceive 
that  he  was  powerless  and  in  the  wrong ;  and  enough  of  self- 
control  to  restrain  his  feelings  in  the  hope  of  avoiding  scandal. 

He  turned  therefore  slowly  on  his  heel,  and  moved  toward 
the  door.  "  Advance  your  light,"  he  said,  "  and  show  me  the 
way,  sirrah.  And,  be  you  sure,  that  I  shall  remember  this 
night's  work." 

"  And  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  not  forget  it,"  answered  the 
sturdy  officer,  doing  as  he  was  ordered  quietly,  but  keeping  a 
quick  eye  to  the  other's  movements. 

Andross  strode  forward  haughtily  in  dark  silence,  until  he 
reached  the  threshold,  then  he  turned  round,  and  shook  his 
finger  at  the  maiden,  who  had  fallen  on  her  knees,  with  clasped 
hands  and  upturned  eyes,  in  gratitude  to  Heaven  for  that  de 
liverance  from  peril  worse  than  death. 

"  Girl,"  he  said,  "  make  your  peace  with  God !  for  in  his 


THE    "  TWO-FRIKNDS."  203 

presence  you  shall  stand,  ere  the  sun  sets  to-morrow."  There 
was  a  bitter  and  sardonic  smile  on  the  scoffer's  lips  as  he 
spoke  ;  and  he  added  with  a  sneer  — "  What  answer  you  to 
that  ?" 

"  Amen  !"  she  replied,  looking  at  him  calmly,  "  and  may  He 
pardon  you,  whose  name  you  take  in  vain  !" 

If  a  look  could  have  slain,  there  would  have  been  no  hang 
man  needed  to  wreak  Andross's  vengeance  on  that  gentle  head 
upon  the  morrow. 

But  it  fell  harmless  as  the  curse  which  quivered  on  his  lips 
unspoken  ;  or  recoiled  on  his  own  head,  urging  him  on  to  deeds 
of  fresh  madness,  and  greater  desperation.  "  Whom  the  gods 
destine  to  destruction,  they  first  deprive  of  reason,"  said  Rome's 
sage  —  how  sagely,  let  every  felon's  fate  bear  witness. 

The  door  of  Ruth's  cell  closed  behind  him.  No  trouble 
more  came  nigh  to  her  that  night.  Innocent,  she  slept  sound 
ly,  and  in  her  dreams  was  happy. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

THE    "  TWO-FRIENDS." 

IT  was  yet  dark,  although  morning  was  nigh  at  hand  ;  a 
thick,  gray  mist  hung  over  the  city,  and  filled  the  streets  and 
narrower  thoroughfares  with  wreaths  of  turbid  vapor.  But 
over  the  wharfs,  and  on  the  surface  of  the  water  the  fog  was 
packed  so  densely  that  it  was  not  possible  to  see  the  largest 
object  at  the  distance  of  twenty  yards. 

Still,  in  despite"  of  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  and  the 
impossibility  of  descrying  anything  to  seaward,  there  was  a 


204  THE     FAIR     PURITAN. 

considerable  crowd  collected  on  the  docks  and  that  apparently 
in  eager  and  anxious  expectation. 

But  hour  after  hour  passed  away,  and  the  dawn  grew  gradu 
ally  brighter,  and  the  sky  clearer  overhead,  without  the  murky 
fog  diminishing  in  the  least  below,  or  anything  occurring  to 
justify  or  account  for  the  eagerness  of  the  people. 

Yet  as  the  day  grew  more  apparent,  and  the  sun  rose,  the 
number  of  persons  who  gathered  down  to  the  water's  edge 
increased;  and  not  their  numbers  only,  but  their  eagerness, 
although  they  were  perfectly  quiet  and  orderly. 

At  length,  there  came  a  quick  fluttering  motion  in  the  air, 
a  long  cool  breath,  and  the  mist  waved  and  shook  like  the 
folds  of  a  vast  curtain.  Then  again  all  was  still.  A  minute 
passed  thus,  and  then,  in  an  instant,  a  strong  fresh  breeze 
poured  in,  and  the  fog  was  dissipated  in  the  moment. 

The  fair,  broad  bay  lay  visible  in  its  beautiful  expanse  be 
fore  the  eyes  of  all,  with  the  great  orb  of  the  new-risen  sun 
hanging,  mighty  globe  of  lurid  fire,  upon  the  eastern  verge  of 
the  horizon,  and  shedding  a  long  stream  of  crimson  light  over 
the  dancing  ripples. 

Afar  off,  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  there  was  however  a 
dark,  inky  shadow,  rushing  in  rapidly  toward  the  shore — the 
growing  roughness  of  the  waters  lashed  into  life  by  the  stiff 
and  increasing  breeze  —  ere  long  that  inky  shadow  was  broken 
by  spots  and  flakes  of  white  foam,  which  became  constantly 
more  regular  and  more  continuous,  until  at  length  they  came 
rolling  in,  line  after  line,  of  tall,  snow-crested  billows. 

Over  the  surface  of  the  roughened  bay,  many  a  white  sail, 
many  a  toping  hull  was  discernible,  fishing-boats  beating  sea 
ward,  coasters  close-hauled,  or  running  in  before  the  wind  ; 
but  only  one  large  vessel,  if  the  Rose  frigate  be  excepted, 
which  lay  motionless,  before  the  castle,  at  a  single  anchor, 
with  her  yards  accurately  crossed,  and  every  rope  in  its  place, 


.    THE  "TWO-FRIENDS."  205 

but  not  a  speck  of  canvas  to  be  seen,  nor  any  sign  of  movement 
or  activity  upon  her  guarded  decks.  Just  as  the  mist  cleared 
off,  however,  and  the  sun  lifted  his  gorgeous  head  above  the 
glowing  waters,  the  dull  roar  of  an  unshotted  gun  broke  the 
silence,  and  up  soared  to  the  gaff-end  the  snow-white  banner 
of  St.  George  with  its  resplendent  cross  of  red,  up  to  the  mast 
head  rushed  the  fluttering  pennon,  and  both  streamed  out  be 
fore  the  joyous  blast  triumphant  and  invincible. 

The  other  ship  was  a  tall  merchantman,  coming  in  gallantly 
with  every  sail  set  that  would  draw,  into  her  native  harbor  — 
her  white  canvass  bellying  in  the  breeze,  and  the  foam  heaped 
beneath  the  bows  like  the  froth  of  a  cataract. 

She  was  perhaps  a  mile  distant  from  the  shore  when  she 
was  first  descried  ;  and  every  moment  brought  her  nearer  to 
the  shore,  and  increased  the  eagerness  and  excitement  of  the 
people. 

"  It  is  she,  sure  enough,"  cried  out  an  old  sea-dog,  who  had 
been  contemplating  her  with  a  careful  and  knowing  eye.  "  It 
is  she,  by  those  new 'cloths  in  her  maintopsail  ?" 

"  The  Two-Friends  ?"  asked  a  grave  citizen.  "  Are  you 
certain  it  is  she  ?" 

"  Yes,  master,  it  is  she  sure  enough.*' 

And  the  words  the  Two-Friends  spread  rapidly  through  the 
concourse,  and  were  greeted  by  a  hum  of  applause,  and  then 
by  a  regular  and  partial  cheer. 

Scarcely,  however,  had  the  slight  tumult  which  this  news 
created  in  some  degree  passed  over,  but  a  fiercer  and  more 
stirring  excitement  succeeded  it. 

A  sharp,  rakish-looking  pinnace,  with  the  pennant  of  a  man- 
of-war  flying  from  her  mast-head  was  seen  darting  like  a  fal 
con  on  her  prey,  as  close  to  the  wind  as  she  could  lie,  across 
the  course  of  the  merchantman  as  if  to  intercept  her  ;  although 
she  was  so  far  distant,  and  the  merchantman  was  coming  in  so 


206  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

rapidly,  that  it  seemed  more  than  doubtful,  whether  she  would 
not  weather  her  pursuer,  and  come  into  port  before  her. 

Every  moment  rendered  this  possibility  more  probable  ;  and 
ere  long  the  fact  was  evident  to  those  on  board  the  pinnace, 
as  was  proved  by  a  sharp  flash  a  puff'  of  white  smoke  from  the 
larboard  bows,  followed  by  the  roar  of  a  heavy  gun,  though  no 
missile  was  projected  from  its  muzzle. 

Still  the  tall  ship  stood  on  unheeding. 

Another  flash  from  the  pinnace  —  another  puff  of  white 
smoke,  and  a  ball  skipped  from  ridge  to  ridge  of  the  curling 
waves  scarce  twenty  feet  before  the  cut-water  of  the  Two- 
Friends. 

Still  she  regarded  not  the  summons,  but  stood  onward, 
scarce  now  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant  from  the  crowded 
wharves  of  Boston. 

In  the  meantime,  between  the  ship  and  the  docks,  a  very 
large,  light-laden  schooner  had  for  some  time  been  getting 
under  way,  in  the  most  lubberly  and  unseamanlike  way  that 
can  be  imagined  ;  she  was  apparently  very  short  handed,  for 
only  one  man  and  two  or  three  boys  had  been  seen  upon  her 
decks,  yet  she  had  no  less  than  five  boats  towing  in  the  water 
behind  her,  one  of  them  a  sharp  clipper  with  her  tiny  masts 
stepped,  and  her  sails  flapping  idly  in  the  wind. 

Some  merriment  had  been  excited  among  the  crowd,  while 
the  large  ship  was  at  a  distance,  by  her  lubberly  movements 
and  dull  sailing,  but  now  that  events  were  thickening,  and 
something  strange  was  apparently  in  progress,  the  attention  of 
the  multitude  was  diverted  from  her,  and  few  persons  observed 
that  although  yawing  and  keeling  about  strangely,  she  was 
steering  a  course,  which,  if  she  held  it  much  longer,  must 
bring  her  into  collision  with  the  Two-Friends. 

Meantime,  the  pinnace  had  again  fired  a  shotted  gun ;  and 


THE    "  TWO-FRIENDS."  207 

this  time  a  large  rent  in  the  ship's  maintopsail  showed  that 
the  shot  had  been  aimed  directly  at  the  object. 

Alarmed  by  the  firing,  the  frigate's  crew  now  came  passing 
up  through  the  hatchways,  and  her  decks  were  crowded  with 
blue-jackets.  The  next  moment  her  drums  were  heard  beat 
ing  to  quarters. 

Still  the  Two-Friends  held  sullenly  and  obstinate  to  her 
course,  taking  no  notice  of  the  firing  of  the  pinnace,  except  to 
show  two  or  three  English  ensigns  in  various  parts  of  her  rig 
ging,  and  a  large  orange  flag  at  her  maintopmast,  as  if  it  were 
a  private  signal. 

It  would,  however,  seem  that  this  private  signal  had  more 
than  a  private  meaning  ;  for  the  instant  it  appeared  a  long, 
loud  cheer  of  joy  ran  along  the  crowded  wharves,  and  up  the 
streets,  and  was  re-echoed  faint  and  far  from  the  centre  of  the 
city,  and  from  the  heights  of  Charlestown,  and  from  the  brow, 
bloodless  then,  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

At  the  same  instant,  flash  after  flash,  roar  after  roar,  a  whole 
broadside  burst  from  the  batteries  of  the  pinnace. 

Sails  flew  in  wild  disorder,  yards  fell,  a  topmast  toppled 
down,  and  unable  any  longer  to  neglect  warnings  so  pregnant, 
the  Two-Friends  backed  her  sails  and  lay  to,  to  await  her 
captor's  pleasure. 

Meantime  the  pinnace  lowered  her  boats,  and  some  ten  or 
fifteen  men,  well  armed  with  boarding-pike  and  cutlass,  might 
be  seen  scaling  the  tall  sides  of  the  merchantman. 

Before,  however,  the  crowd  on  the  docks  had  time  to  think 
upon  what  was  passing,  the  clumsy  and  ill-managed  schooner, 
as  if  by  accident,  ran  foul  of  the  ship  on  the  opposite  side  from 
the  pinnace. 

Then,  in  an  instant,  grapplings  were  thrown  on  board,  and 
at  least  three  hundred  men,  rushing  up  from  below,  burst  like 
a  living  torrent  over  the  schooner's  bulwarks,  ran  up  the  rig- 


208  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

ging,  dropped  from  the  yard-arms  to  the  deck  of  the  Two- 
Friends,  and  for  a  moment  all  on  board  was  confusion  and 
dismay. 

A  few  pistol-shots  were  fired,  and  cutlasses  flashed  in  the 
air,  and  shouts  were  heard  on  board  ;  but  all  resistance  was 
at  an  end  in  five  minutes  ;  so  thoroughly  were  the  men-of- 
war's-men  overpowered. 

Then  the  crowd  was  seen  to  rush  back  on  board  the  schoon 
er,  leaving  the  ship  at  the  mercy  of  the  pinnace,  with  her 
crew  hailing  eagerly  and  deprecating  hostile  measures. 

On  the  deck  of  the  frigate,  meanwhile,  all  was  tumult  and 
confusion  ;  sail  after  sail  was  let  fall,  and  sheeted  home,  her 
cable  was  cut,  and  in  the  shortest  time  conceivable  she  was 
under  way,  and  in  pursuit  of  the  schooner,  which,  having  cut 
away  her  boats,  was  beating  slowly  out  to  sea. 

For  a  while  the  abandoned  boats  tossed  about  carelessly  on 
the  waters,  until  the  pinnace  had  passed  them  unheeding,  and 
the  frigate,  her  cable  cut,  and  a  sail  or  two  set,  was  swung  off 
in  an  opposite  direction. 

Then  the  clipper-rigged  boat  showed  for  the  first  time  that 
she  had  men  on  board  her.  For  her  sails  too  were  trimmed, 
and  right  before  the  wind  she  came  bounding  to  the  shore,  un 
noticed  and  unhindered. 

And  yet  she  bore  the  prize  for  which  all  were  playing. 

As  she  came  within  eye-shot  of  the  docks,  a  tall  man  stood 
up  in  her  bows  waving  the  orange  flag,  and  again  peal  upon 
peal  outburst  the  thundering  acclamations,  "  till  every  steeple 
rocked,  and  the  fair  hills  re-echoed  the  shouts  of  an  enfran 
chised  people  rejoicing  in  their  new-born  freedom." 

Another  moment,  and  the  man  stood  upon  the  docks  with 
Nelson  by  his  side.  The  latter  tossed  his  cap  into  the  air, 
and  shouted  — 

"William   and   Mary   are    your  kings  —  Simon   Bradstreet 


THE    MUSTERING.  209 

your  governor  !  Shout,  boys  of  Boston,  shout !  England  and 
liberty  for  ever  !  and  down  with  James  Stuart  and  Sir  Edmund 
Andross  !" 

There  was  no  need  to  repeat  the  order  ;  for  such  a  cry  arose 
of  triumph  and  rejoicing,  as  told  the  tyrant  and  his  minions, 
that  their  reign  in  America  was  ended. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

THE    MUSTERING. 

SCARCELY  had  that  last  shout  risen  on  the  air,  before  the 
long  roll  of  the  English  drums  was  heard  beating  to  arms.  A 
gun  was  fired  from  the  seaward  bhstion  of  the  castle,  and  sig 
nals  were  exchanged  rapidly  with  the  frigate,  which,  immedi 
ately  leaving  the  pursuit  of  the  schooner,  altered  her  course, 
and  made  all  sail  homeward. 

In  the  meantime  Nelson  and  his  companions  hurried  through 
the  dense  streets  to  the  abode  of  the  old  patriot  governor,  bear 
ing  the  messenger  of  good  tidings  on  their  shoulders.  There 
the  old  man  with  Sir  Henry  Cecil,  and  Waterhouse,  and  Fos 
ter,  were  in  session,  and  many  others  with  them,  both  officers 
of  the  provincial  train-bands,  and  magistrates  under  the  old 
charter. 

The  proclamation  of  William  and  Mary  was  immediately 
laid  before  these  worthies,  and  there  was  not  a  moment's  doubt 
now  of  the  truth  of  the  good  tidings,  which  had  so  long  been 
anticipated. 

"  You  see,  Sir  Henry,"  said  the  old  man,  "  that  I  pledged 
myself  to  nothing  but  what  was  strictly  true,  and  which  the 

event  has  borne  out./' 
8* 


210  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

"  And  you  shall  see,  my  excellent  good  friend,"  replied  Sir 
Henry,  "  that  I  pledged  myself  to  nothing  that  I  will  not  per 
form.  I  said  that  I  would  answer  for  the  soldiers,  and  I  will." 

"  But  what  must  we  do  first,  Master  Bradstreet  ?"  exclaimed 
Waterhouse.  "  This  Andross  is  a  man  of  nerve  ;  and  is  re 
solved  doubtless  to  carry  the  matter  on  unto  the  end.  The 
soldiers  are  Englishmen,  and  will  obey  their  officers,  and  do 
their  duty  to  the  last.  .If  we  act  not  at  once,  it  may  well  be 
that  we  shall  be  all  surprised  severally,  and  made  prisoners 
ere  a  blow  is  stricken." 

While  he  was  speaking,  Bradstreet  had  been  employed  wri 
ting  eagerly  upon  a  strip  of  paper,  although  he  appeared  to 
write  every  word  that  his  friend  uttered.  When  he  ceased 
speaking  he  turned  round,  and  handing  the  paper  to  his  serv 
ing  man,  said,  "  Make  all  haste.  Give  it  to  no  one  but  him 
self.  He  is  at  his  post." 

Then  turning  to  Waterhouse,  he  answered,  "  Yes.  You 
are  quite  right,  my  good  friend.  What  orders  have  your  men  ? 
and  yours,  Foster  ?" 

"  To  be  ready  for  action  at  a  moment's  notice,"  replied  Fos 
ter. 

"  And  to  muster  upon  the  Common,  at  the  first  clank  of  the 
statehouse  bell,"  cried  Waterhouse. 

"  How  many  firelocks  ?"  asked  Cecil. 

"  Five  hundred,"  was  the  prompt  reply ;  "  and  eight  hun 
dred  pikes  !" 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Sir  Henry.  "  That  will  do.  They 
will  not  feel  their  honor  hurt  in  yielding  to  such  odds." 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Bradstreet,  "  you  had  better  make 
all  speed  to  the  common,  or  your  men  will  be  there  before  you." 

Then,  as  he  saw  the  wild  and  astonished  looks  of  the  offi 
cers,  he  added, 

"  The  time  has  come,  the  statehouse  bell  will  sound  ere  you 


THE    MUSTERING.  21) 

are  there.  As  soon  as  you  have  mustered  your  men,  Colonev 
\Vaterhouse,you  will  send  a  hundred  men  with  a  captain  hither 
to  escort  us  to  the  town-hall.  Hold  the  rest  of  the  men  firm, 
assailing  no  one,  but  if  assailed,  yourselves  resisting  to  the  ut 
most.  How  now,  Green  ?"  he  added,  as  a  stout  powerful  man, 
somewhat  above  the  middle  age,  entered  the  room  hastily,  with 
his  faced  flushed,  and  his  dress  disordered  by  the  haste  with 
which  he  had  come  from  the  docks.  u  What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"The  frigate  has  returned  to  her  moorings,"  he  replied, 
"  and  has  run  out  her  guns,  and  cleared  her  decks.  I  think 
she  will  fire  upon  the  town.  I  fancy  she  waits  only  for  a  mes 
senger  from  Andross." 

"  Then  let  no  messenger  go  off  to  her.  You  vnnd  your 
sturdy  shipwrights,  can  take  heed  of  that,"  said  Bradstreet. 

"  And  what  if  any  one  land  from  her?" 

"  Make  him  your  prisoner !  Arrest  him  in  the  name  of 
King  William,  even  if  it  be  Captain  George  himself.  There 
is  your  warrant,  sir,"  and  he  gave  him  a  sealed  paper  as  he 
spoke.  "  Now,"  he  continued,  "  here  is  a  task  of  a  little 
peril  —  who  volunteers  for  it?" 

"I — I  and  I,"  exclaimed  several  voices  in  a  breath,  the 
foremost  and  most  audible  of  which  was  that  of  Merciful 
Whalley. 

"  No,  no.  You  will  not  do  at  all,  good  Merciful,"  answered 
the  governor  elect ;  "  for  you  are  angry,  and  not  without  a  good 
cause  ;  and  angry  men  make  evil  councillors.  Besides  you 
mistake  ;  there  is  no  active  danger  in  it,  and  I  think  that  is 
what  you  look  for." 

"  Verily  you  have  said  it,  Simon  Bradstreet,"  answered  the 
Puritan.  "  Place  me  in  the  first  rank  against  the  Philistines. 
It  is  there  I  fain  would  be." 

"  I  warrant  it,"  said  Bradstreet.  "  But  what  I  want  now,  is 
one  to  bear  the  copy  of  this  proclamation,  which  your  good 


212  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

friend  Solsgrace,  here,  has  well  nigh  finished,  to  Sir  Edmund 
Andross  and  summon  him  to  yield  his  power." 

"  I  will  do  that,  Master  Bradstreet,"  replied  Sir  Henry  Cecil. 

"  We  can  not  spare  you,  Sir  Henry.  You  are  not  to  be  risked 
so  lightly.  For  he  were  sure  to  apprehend  you  on  the  instant, 
and  we  want  you  to  deal  with  the  soldierly." 

"  I  will  bear  it,  my  good  friends,"  said  an  old  man  rising 
fully  from  the  board.  "  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  will  not  be 
angry.  My  years  will  bear  me  witness  for  that.  And,  for  the 
rest,  if  he  takes  my  life  there  is  no  human  being  in  whose 
veins  my  blood  runs,  nor  will  there  be  any  left  to  mourn  me." 

"  My  good  friend,  Sturtevant,"  answered  the  governor,  "  most 
thankfully  do  I  accept  your  offer,  riot  for  the  reasons  that  you 
give.  But  simply  because  in  all  Boston  there  is  no  man  so 
well  qualified  as  you  to  do  this  duty.  I  will  beseech  you  to 
set  forth  at  once,  without  loss  of  time,  for  ere  long  —  ha !  there 
it  goes,"  he  continued,  as  the  keep  sound  of  the  bell  from  the 
town  hall  broke  out,  first  in  slow,  measured,  awful  tones,  in 
creasing  still  in  volume,  and  thickening  on  the  ear,  and  quick 
ening  into  one  continuous  and  startling  clangor  —  'there  goes 
the  voice  that  shall  stir  every  heart  in  Boston,  in  America. 
You,  Gideon  Whalley,  you,  Simeon  Langdale,  go  with  good 
Master  Sturtevant  unto  the  governor.  He  is  in  council  now." 

No  more  words  were  required.  The  embassy  went  forth,  but 
went  on  a  fruitless  errand.  Meanwhile  church  after  church, 
and  steeple  after  steeple,  took  up  the  song  of  freedom,  till  leagues 
and  leagues  away,  far  into  the  heart  of  the  great  continent,  the 
joyful  tidings  were  sent  forth. 

The  villages  around  poured  one  continuous  stream  of  men, 
all  armed  with  pike  and  match-lock,  wielded  by  hands  inured 
to  deadly  strife  with  the  wild  beast  or  wilder  Indian,  into  the 
capital  of  the  Bay  Province. 

The  drums  beat  through  the  streets — the  boys  ran  to  and 


THE    MUSTERING.  213 

fro  with  clubs  and  stones,  and  doors  were  barred  and  shop 
windows  closed,  and  all  was  tumult  and  confusion. 

Meanwhile  the  captain  of  the  frigate  came  ashore  in  his 
barge  to  confer  with  Andross,  and  was  made  prisoner  in  a 
moment. 

About  the  same  time  the  messenger  returned  to  Bradstreet, 
from  the  governor,  refusing  to  give  up  the  reins  of  power,  and 
asking  for  a  conference. 

"  It  is  of  no  avail.  We  will  go  forth  to  the  town-hall,  and 
read  the  proclamation,"  replied  the  good  old  man. 

And  with  the  words  the  conference  broke  up,  and  they 
passed  out  into  the  street.  Just  as  they  reached  the  common, 
the  English  regiment  came  up  with  its  drums  beating,  and  its 
colors  flying,  and  its  superb  and  serried  lines  resplendent  in 
all  the  pomp  and  pageantry  of  warfare  —  stout  hearts  as  ever 
wielded  weapon,  brave  hearts  as  ever  dared  the  shock  of  bat 
tle.  But  there,  directly  in  their  course,  lay  unexpectedly,  the 
Boston  train-bands.  Three  times  their  force  —  brave  men, 
and  disciplined,  and  used,  a  part  of  them  at  least,  to  Indian 
warfare.  ' 

Sternly  they  met  each  other  front  to  front.  No  word  was 
spoken,  no  order  given,  but  on  both  sides  the  lines  halted,  and 
gazed  on  each  other  face  to  face,  for  a  deep,  breathless  pause 
of  several  minutes  !  Then  suddenly,  yet  steadily,  and  as  if  by 
a  simultaneous,  and  preconcerted  movement  the  muskets  rose 
on  both  side  to  the  level.  Every  eye  in  each  line  was  glan 
cing  over  the  polished  tube.  Every  finger  was  on  the  deadly 
trigger.  Another  moment  and  blood  had  flowed  in  torrents. 
But  ere  that  moment  came,  Cecil  sprang  forth  from  the  side  of 
Bradstreet,  and  as  he  stood  with  his  stately  form  aloft  and  his 
clear  voice  commanding  them  to  "  Hold  for  your  lives" — the 
peril  passed  away — the  crisis  was  over! 


214  THE    FAIR    PURITAN 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

THE    STRUGGLE. 

NEVER,  perhaps,  though  Cecil  was  an  eloquent  and  able 
speaker,  accustomed  for  years  to  address  bodies  of  men  and 
bend  them  to  his  will  by  the  persuasive  force  of  words,  never, 
I  say,  had  he  spoken  witli  such  energy,  such  fire,  such  melt 
ing  pathos  as  he  did  at  this  perilous  moment. 

His  words,  not  in  long,  wearying  sentences  cloying  the 
hearer's  understanding  with  their  very  sweetness,  but  in  short, 
terse  Saxon  phrases,  forcing  their  way  wedge-like  into  the 
apprehension  of  the  dullest  brain,  and  carrying  conviction  with 
them. 

Beloved,  as  no  other  officer  of  the  regiment,  by  his  com 
rades,  loved  and  respected  by  the  men,  in  more  than  an  equal 
ratio,  there  was  not,  perhaps,  a  man  in  the  world,  who  would 
have  been  listened  to  by  those  bold  martialists  on  such  a 
subject. 

For  his  words,  had  they  been  unsuccessful,  were  such  as 
would  have  gained  for  him,  beyond  a  doubt,  the  appellation 
and  the  punishment  of  a  rebel,  the  deed  to  which  he  incited 
them  was  no  less  than  mutiny. 

"  Hold,"  he  cried  in  those  deep  and  impressive  tones  which 
penetrate  the  heart  more  deeply  than  a  trumpet's  clangor. 
"  Hold,  men  and  brothers.  You,  men  of  Boston,  lower  your 
muskets,  ground  your  arms,  I  command  you  !  You,  fellow- 
soldiers,  hold,  I  entreat  you,  hold  !  If  you  would  spare  your 
selves  endless  anguish  !  if  you  would  save  your  souls  the  guilt 
of  causeless  bloodshed  —  ay!  Ravensworth,  I  said  causeless. 


THE    STRUGGLE.  215 

For  who  are  you  but  Englishmen,  but  the  king's  soldiers? 
And  what  cause  is  it  that  ye  would  maintain,  but  the  cause  of 
your  country  and  your  king  ? 

"  Brothers,  and  fellow-soldiers,  you  have  known  me  for 
years,  both  in  peace  and  in  warfare,  and  well  ye  know  that 
not  to  earn  a  kingdom  would  I  descend  to  a  falsehood.  Now, 
mark  me,  this,  which  you  think  a  civil  and  a  public  rising,  is 
but  a  poor  domestic  quarrel.  Were  this  the  time,  were  this 
the  ground  of  battle  betwixt  the  cause  of  England  and  the 
freedom  of  America,  God  is  my  judge  and  witness  that  as  an 
Englishman  my  every  energy  should  fight  for  my  king  and  my 
country.  Not  for  that  grand,  that  holy,  that  most  divine  of  all 
earthly  things,  a  nation's  freedom,  would  I  lift  hand  against 
my  own,  my  glorious  country.  Brothers,  will  you  unsheath 
your  sword  against  her,  for  a  poor  minion's  cause,  in  a  de 
pressed  and  fallen  tyrant's  quarrel  ?  Ye  stare  on  me,  with 
eager  eyes,  and  astonished  faces,  as  though  you  understood 
me  not — as  though  you  would  ask  me,  '  Who  is  the  minion  ? 
who  the  deposed  and  fallen  tyrant?'  Sir  Edmund  Andross, 
the  err-governor  of  this  Bay  Province  !  James  Stuart,  the  late 
king  of  England  !  Ay  !  start  not,  it  is  so  !  England  has  risen 
to  a  man  —  church  and  state,  peers  and  commons,  army  and 
navy  —  ay!  fellow-soldiers,  that  very  navy  which  once  he 
led  so  well  —  have  turned  from  the  last  Stuart  in  his  madness 
Nay!  his  own  children  have  forsaken  him.  He  hath  fled 
from  the  land,  without  the  stroke  of  sword,  basely  abandoning 
his  sceptre,  even  as  he  did  wield  it  cruelly.  England  is  a  free 
country.  England  has  chosen  her  a  free  king — a  king  not  of 
monks,  and  cowls,  and  rosaries  —  but  of  stout-stricken  fields, 
of  camps,  and  of  armies.  Anon  !_w.ill  call  on  you  to  lift  your 
voices  with  him  to  the  God  of  battles,  who  has  given  to  you  a 
soldier's  king  of  England  in  William  of  Nassau!" 

The  truth  fell  sensibly  upon  their  hearts.     Rumors  of  what 


216  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

was  in  progress  had  reached  the  officers  long  months  before, 
and  they  were  in  some  sort  prepared,  for  that  which  was  to 
follow. 

With  the  army  the  bigot  king  had  ever  been  popular  — 
Andross  was  hated  as  a  tyrant  and  a  martinet.  —  What  cause 
had  they  to  strike,  to  bleed  for  him  ? 

Well  satisfied  with  what  he  saw,  Cecil  proceeded,  and  as 
he  went  on,  every  breast  went  with  him,  and  the  good  cause 
was  won. 

"  These  men  of  Boston,"  he  continued,  "  are  here  in  arms 
at  my  call,  mine,  and  the  governor's.  Ay!  comrades,  start 
not  at  the  word  —  the  governor's.  Edmund  Andross  is  such 
no  longer.  The  good,  the  noble  Bradstreet  is  now  the  gover 
nor  of  Boston !  and  these  good  men  are  here,  with  English 
arms  in  their  stout  hands,  and  English  blood  in  their  brave 
.hearts  to  strike,  if  needs  be,  for  the  liberty  of  England  !  Will 
you,  natives  and  sons,  sworn  soldiers  of  her  soil,  strike  parri- 
cidally  against  them  ?  Will  you.  men  of  England,  tlo  battle  to 
enslave  England,  against  Americans  who  are  here  to  strike, 
one  blow  for  the  freedom  of  their  own  America,  in  striking  for 
the  freedom  of  our  England  ?" 

"  No,  no !  not  we  !  we  will  not !"  shouted  a  thousand  manly 
voices.  No  !  never  !  Cecil  for  ever  !  Cecil  and  England  !" 

"  Speak  to  us!  speak  to  us,  Sir  Henry!  What  would  you 
h  ive  us  do  ?" 

"  Ground  your  arms,  brothers !  The  muskets  which  you 
carry  are  King  James's.  Ground  your  arms  !  Strike  your 
colors  !" 

Before  the  words  had  well  left  his  lips,  the  butt  of  every 
musket  rang  upon  the  pavement,  and  the  proud  color  which 
had  never  bowed  before  the  foeman's  fire,  was  lowered  to  the 
earth. 

The   officers  had  lost  all  power  over  the   men  had  they 


THE    STRUGGLE.  217 

desired  to  exert  it.'  But  few  there  were  who  did  so.  There 
were  two  or  three  of  their  number,  personal  friends  of  An- 
dross,  who  would,  if  they  dared,  have  done  battle  in  his 
cause. 

But  the  immense  majority  of  numbers  arrayed  against  them 
now,  with  the  conviction  that  a  victory  even,  would  avail  them 
nothing,  since  in  the  end  all  England  would  be  arrayed  on  the 
other  side,  held  them  speechless  and  motionless. 

Only  when  the  men  had  lain  down  their  arms,  and  Cecil 
had  ceased  speaking,  the  major  of  the  regiment  advanced,  his 
officers  all  following  his  example,  stepped  out  from  the  ranks, 
and  walked  directly  up  to  Sir  Henry  Cecil. 

"  May  we  take  this  —  all  this,  I  mean,  that  you  have  spoken 
—  as  true  upon  your  word  of  honor  ?" 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,  as  a  man  and  a  soldier,"  replied 
Cecil. 

"  That  is  sufficient,"  answered  the  other.  "  I  tender  you 
my  sword,  Sir  Henry.  I  am  King  James's  soldier,  not  King 
William's  !" 

"  Keep  it,  sir !  keep  it,  and  use  it  for  King  William  as  gal 
lantly  as  I  have  seen  you  use  it  for  King  James,  or  promise,  at 
least,  you  will  never  draw  it  against  the  King  of  England ! 
One  word  more,  gentlemen  —  the  governor  is  there  among  the 
people,  he  will  show  you,  if  you  are  unwilling  to  take  my 
word,  the  king's  proclamation  and  his  own  commission." 

"  We  are  well  satisfied  enough,  with  your  word,  Sir  Henry 
Cecil,  which  no  man  ever  doubted!"  exclaimed  several  of  the 
younger  officers  ;  but  the  mayor  and  several  other  of  the  supe 
riors  desiring  to  be  fully  satisfied,  went  up  to  Simon  Bradstreet, 
and  convinced  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt  by  the  produc 
tion  of  the  papers,  tendered  their  swords  again,  and  were  again 
requested  to  retain  them  until  such  time  as  the  oath  of  alle 
giance  to  King  William  could  be  duly  and  legally  administered. 
T  10 


218  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

Meanwhile,  Cecil,  fearful  of  losing  time,  had  again  har 
angued  the  men  with  words  of  fire,  and  bade  those  who  would 
be  soldiers  of  King  William  take  up  their  arms  again,  and  dis 
play  once  more  England's  royal  colors. 

And  as  a  single  man  the  regiment  resumed  its  arms,  and  as 
the  blazoned  standard  floated  again  on  the  free  air — three 
deep,  full-mouthed  huzzas,  the  glorious  cheer  of  England, 
whether  gay  festive  board,  or  on  the  field  of  death,  rose  on  the 
air__ three  cheers  for  King  William  —  William  III.  of  Eng 
land." 

Just  at  this  instant,  having  heard  that  which  was  in  prog 
ress,  Andross  came  galloping  down  the  street  on  a  superb 
black  horse,  in  his  full  array  as  the  royal  governor,  with  a 
dozen  officers,  his  own  particular  friends  and  followers,  behind 
him. 

He  was  prepared,  as  he  came  down,  to  put  himself  at  the 
head  of  the  soldiery,  strike  a  bold  blow  for  his  king,  and,  if 
need  be,  die  boldly  in  the  cause  which  had  made  him. 

But  all  was  lost  before  he  reached  the  ground,  and,  as  he 
perceived  it,  he  turned  to  the  nearest  of  his  followers,  and,  ex 
claiming  "  All  is  lost  here  !  our  only  hope  is  in  the  castle  and 
the  frigate  !  —  one  bold  charge  for  the  castle  !"  he  set  spurs  to 
his  charger,  and  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  cut  his  way 
through  the  crowd. 

But  as  he  did  so,  a  tall  man  dressed  in  black  clothes  rushed 
forward  and  caught  his  charger  by  the  bridle. 

"  Hold,  man  of  Belial !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Hold,  man  of 
blood !  We  have  a  score  to  settle,  and  in  God's  name  let  it 
be  settled  now  !" 

And  ere  the  words  had  well  passed  his  lips,  the  score  was 
settled. 

For  with  the  speed  of  light  Sir  Edmund  Andross  snatched 


THE    STRUGGLE.  219 

a  horse-pistol  from  his  holster,  set  its  muzzle  to  the  man's 
brow,  and  drew  the  trigger  with  a  firm  finger. 

One  flash,  one  loud  report,  and  Merciful  Whalley,  for  he  it 
was  —  the  only  man  who  fell  in  that  bloodless  revolution  — 
Merciful  Whalley  was  but  a  clod  of  motionless  and  senseless 
clay. 

But  not  unavenged  was  he  in  his  fall,  nor  was  his  score 
long  unsettled  with  his  foeman.  For  his  bold  charger  reared 
at  the  close  flash  and  report,  and  the  dead  man  clinging  to  the 
rein  with  the  tenacity  of  death  itself,  stumbled  and  fell  head 
long. 

Ere  Andross  could  regain  his  feet,  he  was  seized,  disarmed, 
bound,  a  captive  to  the  people  he  despised,  and  the  man  he 
hated.  To  his  proud  spirit  a  doom  worse  than  death ! 

Meantime  the  proclamation  was  read  to  the  people  from  a 
balcony,  peace  was  restored,  and  with  the  loss  of  but  one  life 
that  glorious  revolution  was  accomplished. 

Within  three  hours  the  frigate  was  mastered,  the  fortifica 
tions  yielded,  the  castle  taken,  without  a  single  shot. 

Boston  was  free,  and  William  of  Nassau  was  king  of  Amer 
ica  and  England. 


220  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

THE    DEATH-BELL. 

HOURS  had  passed  like  minutes  during  the  progress  of  that 
fierce  and  terrible  excitement. 

None  know  or  can  imagine,  save  those  who  have  been  en 
gaged  in  such  scenes,  how  the  mind  is  whirled  on  from  point 
to  point,  forgetful  of  all,  in  that  passionate  and  spirit-stirring 
tumult  —  of  all  that  is  dearest  and  nearest  to  its  best  affections. 

So  was  it  now  with  Henry  Cecil. 

Had  any  man  told  him,  the  previous  night,  that  ere  the  next 
day's  noon  he  should  have  forgotten  Ruth  Whalley  —  forgotten 
her  love,  her  innocence,  her  truth,  her  peril,  he  had  told  him 
he  lied. 

Yet  it  was  so.  In  the  heat  of  the  revolution,  which,  if  he 
had  not  wrought,  he  had  at  least  hurried  to  its  close  in  order 
to  preserve  that  sweet  girl  from  a  felon's  death — he  had  for 
gotten  all  —  all  but  the  zeal  of  his  present  purpose. 

And  the  moment  was  now  at  hand.  The  fearful  prepara 
tions  were  all  made.  The  minister  had  prayed  with  his  vic 
tim,  the  last  hymn  had  been  chanted,  the  funeral  service  of  the 
dead  had  been  performed  over  the  living,  who  should  be  living, 
soon,  no  longer. 

'And  Ruth  was  resigned  and  calm  as  ever.  The  last  drop 
of  gall,  the  last  pang  to  her  fond  and  trusting  heart,  was  in  the 
conviction  that  forced  itself  upon  her  soul,  that  Sir  Henry 
Cecil  —  that  her  soul's  idol  —  had  abandoned  her. 

But  that  black  drop  she  had  plucked  from  her  heart,  that 
last  anguish  she  had  confessed. 


THE    DEATH-BELL. 


221 


And  now  she  sat  alone  in  her  narrow  cell ;  alone,  for  the 
last  time,  with  her  ears  listening,  as  mortal  can  listen  under 
such  circumstances,  only  for  the  sound  of  that  awful  bell 
which  should  soon  announce  the  last  hour  of  time,  the  first  of 
eternity  —  with  her  eyes  fixed  and  straining,  through  the 
small,  iron-grated  loop-hole,  on  that  far  heaven,  wherein  she 
hoped  ere  long  to  live  in  bliss  for  ever. 

At  that  same  moment,  pride  in  his  heart,  and  glory  in  his 
eye,  Sir  Henry  Cecil  stood  beside  the  aged  governor  upon  the 
ramparts  of  the  castle,  gazing  over  the  bright  bay  and  the 
fair  province,  which  his  own  skill  and  manhood  had  dared  so 
much  and  done  so  much  to  enfranchise. 

Suddenly,  he  turned  as  pale  as  death,  he  staggered,  he 
would  have  fallen  headlong  from  that  steep  parapet,  but  for 
the  ready  hand  of  Bradstreet,  which  caught  him  on  the  brink 
to  the  descent. 

"  Great  God  !"  cried  the  old  man,  "  what  ails  you  ?" 

"  The  bell !  the  bell !"  cried  the  young  man  pointing,  pale, 
conscience-stricken,  and  in  agony,  worse  than  the  agony  of 
death  toward  the  city,  "  the  death-bell  !  Ruth  —  sweet  Ruth  ! 
— our  negligence  has  slain  thee  !" 

Headlong  down  the  steep  stairs  of  the  bastion,  the  young 
man  rushed,  rallying  his  forces  as  he  went  —  his  stout  com 
panions  followed  him.  Horses  stood  at  the  gate  saddled  and 
housed  for  war,  with  pistols  in  their  holsters  and  half  a  dozen 
men  of  Foster's  troop  of  horse,  lounging  about,  ready  for  in 
stant  action. 

To  summon  them,  to  leap  into  the  saddle,  to  spur  through 
the  echoing  archway  of  the  fort,  was  but  an  instant's  work  ; 
but  many  a  minute  passed  before  they  reached  the  esplanade 
of  the  prison-gate,  and  all  the  while  that  fearful  bell  was 
clanging  in  their  ears  and  chiding  them,  as  it  seemed,  for 

their  delay  ! 
T* 


222  THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 

They  reached  the  esplanade,  the  gates  of  the  jail  were 
open,  and  through  the  iron  portals,  solemn  and  slow,  filed  out 
the  dark  procession. 

But  they  were  yet  in  time  ! 

A  faint  shriek  burst  from  the  white  lips  of  the  lovely  girl, 
as  she  beheld  her  lover ;  for  such  in  her  hour  of  anguish  her 
heart  had  confessed  him,  spring  from  his  horse  and  rush  to 
ward  her,  while  his  attendants  quietly  overpowered  the  resist 
ance  of  the  sheriff  and  his  officers. 

But  ere  his  ready  dagger  had  severed  the  bonds  which  fas 
tened  her  fair  wrists,  she  had  fainted  in  the  excess  of  surprise 
and  joy. 

When  her  eyes  again  opened  to  the  light,  she  lay  in  her 
lover's  arms,  in  the  apartment  of  the  blunt  keeper  of  the  prison, 
with  none  but  friendly  faces  gathered  around  her. 

Reader,  my  tale  is  ended  —  and  dead  must  be  your  heart 
and  feeble  your  imagination  if  it  can  not  supply  the  rest  —  if  it 
tell  you  not  that  the  first  ship  which  sailed  for  merry  England, 
bore  over  the  laughing  waters,  their  every  peril,  every  trial 
ended,  Sir  Henry  and  his  fair  young  bride;  —  if  it  tell  you  not 
that  ere  many  months  were  passed,  a  stately  castle  in  one  of 
the  fairest  shires  of  fair  England  was  proud  to  claim  as  its 
mistress,  Ruth  Whalley,  the  Fair  Puritan;  —  Whalley  and 
Puritan  no  longer ! 

END    OF    THE    FAIR    PURITAN. 


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author  of  "Herman,"  and   "Sir  Pavcn  and  St.  Pavon."     I2iua 
Tinted  paper.     Extra  cloth,  $1.50. 


"  This  is  a  very  interesting  and  well-told 
Itory.  Th^re  is  a  naturalness  in  the  group 
ing  of  the  characters,  and  a  clearness  of 
definition,  which  make  the  story  pleasant 
Lad  fascinating.  Phases  of  life  are  also 
presented  in  terse  and  vigorous  words.  .  .  . 
It  is  high-toned  and  much  above  the  aver 


age  of  most  of  the  novels  issuing  iiom  thi 
press." — Pittsirurg  Gazette. 

"A  novel  which  has  the  merit  of  being 
written  in  graceful  and  clear  style,  whila 
it  tells  an  interesting  story." — The  Iruie 
pendent. 


Siena.    A  Poem.    By  A.  C.  Swinburne. 

lished  from  Lippincotfs  Magazine^     With  Notes.     i6mo.     Tinted 
paper.     Paper  covers,  25  cts. 


"  Is  polished  with  great  care,  and  is  by 
far  the  best  composition  we  can  recall  from 
Swinburne's  pen,  in  more  than  one  of  its 
effects." — Philadc*.  North  American. 


"  One  of  the  most  elaborate  as  well  a* 
the  most  unexceptionable  of  his  produc 
tions."— A".  Y.  Evening  Post. 


Recollections  of  Persons  and  Places  in  the  West. 

By  H.  M.  BRACKENRIDGE,  a  native  of  the  West ;  Traveler,  Author 
Jurist   New  edition,  enlarged.    121110.  Toned  paper.    Fine  cloth,  $2. 


"  A  very  pleasant  book  it  is,  describing, 
in  ar.  autobiographical  form,  what  was 
'The  West'  of  this  country  half  a  century 
igo." — Philada.  Press. 

"  The  writer  of  these  '  Recollections' 
was  born  in  1786,  and  his  book  is  accord 


ingly  full  of  interesting  facts  and  anec 
dotes  respecting  a  period  of  Western  his 
tory,  which,  when  the  rapid1  growth  of  the 
country  is  considered,  may  almost  be  called 
Pre- Adamite." — Boston  Evening  Tran 
script. 


Infclicia.  A  Volume  of  Poems.  By  Adah  Isaacs 
MENKEN.  i6mo.  Toned  paper.  Neat  cloth,  $i.  Paper  cover, 
75  cts.  With  Portrait  of  Author,  and  Letter  of  Mr.  Charles 
Dickens,  from  a  Steel  Engraving.  Fine  cloth,  beveled  boards, 
gilt  top,  $1.50. 


with  the  living  author's  form,  and  it  serves 
to  drape  the  unhappy  life  with  the  mantle 


of  a  proper  human  charity.     For  herein 

i  visible  the  vague  rea 
reminiscences  of  higher   things."  —  Citt- 


.•:   • 


the  vague  Teachings  after  and 
ces  of  higher   th: 
cinnati  Evening   'Chronicle. 


"  Some  of  the  poems  are  forcible,  others 
are  graceful  and  tender,  but  all  are  per 
vaded  by  a  spirit  of  sadness." — Washing 
ton  E  inning'  Star. 

"  The  volume  is  interesting,  as  reveal 
ing  a  something  that  lay  beyond  the  vul 
gar  eyes  that  took  the  liberty  of  license 

Dallas  Galbraith.    A  Novel.     By  Mrs.  R.  Hard- 

ING   DAVIS,   author   of   "Waiting   for   the   Verdict,"   "Margaret 
Howth,"  "  Life  in  the  Iron  Mills,"  &c.     8vo.     Fine  cloth,  $2. 


"  One  of  the  best  novels  ever  written  for 
Mi  American  magazine." — Philada.Morn- 
wg  Post. 

''The  story  is  most  happily  written  in 
til  respects."— /"A*  North  American. 

"As  a  specimen  of  her  wo.iderful  in- 
jensity  and  passionate  sympa.hies,  this 
ed  and  wholly  noble  romance  is 


equal  or  superior  to  any  previous  achieve 
nvtn\.."—Piiilada.  Evening  Bulletin. 

"  We  therefore  seize  the  opportunity  tp 
say  that  this  is  a  story  of  unusual  power, 
opening  so  as  to  awaken  interest,  and 
maintaining  the  interest  to  the  eud."— 
The  National  Baptist. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &   CO. 


Our  Oiun  Birds  of  the  United  States.    A  Familial 

Natural  History  of  the  Birds  of  the  United  States.  By  WILLIAM 
1*  BAILY.  Revised  and  Edited  by  Edward  D.  Cope,  Member  of 
the  Academy  of  Na  -.rai  Sciences.  With  numerous  Illustrations. 
i6mo.  Toned  papei.  Extra  cloth,  $1.50. 


"  The  text  is  all  the  more  acceptable  to 
die  general  reader  because  the  birds  are 
called  by  their  popular  names,  and  not  by 
Ihs  scientific  titles  of  the  cyclopaedias,  and 
we  know  them  at  once  as  old  friends  and 
companions.  We  commend  this  unpre 
tending  little  book  to  the  public  as  pos 
sessing  an  interest  wider  in  its  range  but 
similar  in  kind  to  that  which  belongs  to 
Gilbert  White's  Natural  History  of  Sel- 
borne.:>— N.  Y.  Even.  Post. 

"The  whole  book  is  attractive,  supply 
ing  much  pleasantly-conveyed  information 
for  young  readers,  and  embodying  an  ar- 

A  Feiu  Friends,  and  How   They  Amused  Them- 

selves.  A  Tale  in  Nine  Chapters,  containing  descriptions  of  Twenty 
Pastimes  and  Games,  and  a  Fancy-Dress  Party.  By  M.  E.  DODGE, 
author  of  "Hans  Brinker,"  &c.  I2mo.  Toned  paper.  Extra 
cloth,  #1.25. 


rangement  and  system  that  will  often  make 
it  a  helpful  work  of  reference  for  older 
naturalists." — Philada.  Even.  Bulletin. 

"To  the  youthful,  'Our  Own  Birds'  ia 
likely  to  prove  a  bountiful  source  of  pleas 
ure,  and  cannot  fail  to  make  them  thor 
oughly  acquainted  with  the  birds  of  the 
United  States.  As  a  science  there  is  none 
more  agreeable  to  study  than  ornithology. 
We  therefore  feel  no  hesitation  in  com 
mending  this  book  to  the  public.  It  is 
neatly  printed  and  bound,  and  is  profusely 
illustrated." — New  York  Herald. 


•'This  convenient  little  encyclopedia 
strikes  the  proper  moment  most  fitly.  The 
evenings  have  lengthened,  and  until  they, 
again  become  short  parties  will  be  gath 
ered  everywhere  and  social  intercourse 
will  be  general.  But  though  it  is  compar 
atively  easy  to  assemble  those  who  would 
be  amused,  the  amusement  is  sometimes 
replaced  by  its  opposite,  and  more  resem 
bles  a  religious  meeting  than  the  juicy  en 
tertainment  intended.  The  '  Few  Friends' 
describes  some  twenty  pastimes,  all  more 

Cameos  from  English  History.     By  the  author  of 

"The   Heir  of  Redclyffe,"   &c.     With  marginal  Index.      I2mu 
Tinted  paper.     Cloth,  $1.25  j  extra  cloth,  $1.75. 


or  less  intellectual,  all  provident  of  mirth, 
requiring  no  preparation,  and  capable  ol 
enlisting  the  largest  or  passing  off  with  the 
smallest  numbers.  The  description  is  con 
veyed  by  examples  that  are  themselves 
'  as  good  as  a  play.'  The  book  deserves 
a  wide  circulation,  as  it  is  the  missionary 
of  much  social  pleasure,  and  demands  no 
more  costly  apparatus  than  ready  wit  and 
genial  disposition."  —  Philada.  North 
A  merican. 


"  History  is  presented  in  a  very  attractive 
Hid  interesting  form  for  young  folks  in  this 
work." — Pittsburg  Gazette. 

The  Diamond  Edition  of  the  Poetical  Works  of 

Robert  Burns.     Edited  by  REV.  R.  A.  WILLMOTT.     New  edition, 
With  numerous  additions.     i8mo.     Tinted  paper.    Fine  cloth,  $i. 

'  This  small,  square,  compact  volume  is 
printed  in  clear  type,  and  contains,  in  three 
Hundred  pages,  the  whole  of  Burns'  poems, 
»ith  a  glossary  and  index  It  is  cheap, 


"  An  excellent  design  happily  executed." 
-N.Y.  Times. 


elegant  and  convenient,  bringing  the  work* 
of  one  of  the  most  popular  of  British  p.--e*s 
within  the  means  of  every  reader  " — tiv* 
ton  Even.  Transcript. 


D 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 
This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


CT  24  1968 


AVI 


68  -11 

LOAN  DEPT. 

™m& 

JUN  2  2  1973 


REC. 


LD  21A-387n-5,'68 
(J401slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


